


Conversations with God

by RowanStella



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-17 01:04:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3509390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowanStella/pseuds/RowanStella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do you consider the machine to be your superior?"<br/>"She's more than that. She's my God. My Power. My friend."<br/>Five times the Machine was exactly what Root needed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. God

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this work was 'borrowed' from a christian book which I thought was oddly fitting. It explores in greater detail what the Machine means to Root, and the depth of their bond. I don't have a beta for this fandom so any mistakes are completely my fault. This is the first piece I've written for POI and of course none the characters are mine. If they were Shaw would still be with us.

The gritty light that slithered its way through the grime coated basement windows fell across Root’s shivering legs in diamond stretched shadows. The broken pattern of criss crossing iron grate created shapes like snake scales on her skin. She stretched her limbs, sluggish with cold, and like her primordial ancestors sought what little warmth she could glean from the fast-fading light of the sun.

How long had she been in solitary? Days she was certain, a week though far fetched was possible. Her skin rubbed the plastic mat beneath her with a sickening tug. Its surface made slick with cold sweat. As furious as she had been when the orderlies wrangled her arms into the straight jacket, she had to admit she was more than a little grateful for the extra layer of warmth it provided. Curling her chin down against her chest, she exhaled deep steady breaths against her sternum and pulled herself tight in a ball.

Perhaps she had been overzealous in her handling of the guard. But when the Machine informed her in clinical if not gruesome detail how he preferred to pass the late hours of his midnight watch she had been positive that it was a call to action.

She was mistaken.

A gentle vibration hummed in her jaw where it rested on the yellowed pillow the hospital provided. The only creature comfort to be found in that dank little dungeon. Well, the only one they knew about anyway. Scooting the pillow back with the side of her head, Dr. Carmichael’s phone buzzed to life against the mat with an unknown number. Root gleamed as her small, dark little corner of the world grew a few degrees warmer with anticipation. She pressed the answer key with the tip of her nose, and with a gentle flip of her hair pressed her ear flat against the receiver.

“Can. You .Hear .Me?”

“Absolutely,” a crooked smile curled across her chapped lips.

“Estimated. Time. Remaining. In. Confinement. Eight Hours. Thirty Nine. Minutes.”

“How long have I been down here?” Anger blossomed bright in her chest, as she stretched her body flat against the mat.

“Sixty. Three Hours. Twenty. One Minutes.”

Root smiled bitterly to herself, leaning up briskly to crack her neck before placing her head back down against the phone.

“Why am I here?” She couldn’t mask the irritation that nested in her throat, twisting her voice into a threatening lilt. The Machine responded without pause, immuned to her growing hostility.

“Armed. Assault. On. Staff. Member. Michael Donnely.

Staff. Member. Injuries: Critical.

Staff. Member. Condition: Stable.”

“Don’t be coy.” Root brushed her cheek affectionately across the phone’s surface, raising her face slightly to speak directly into the microphone. “Why are you keeping me here?”

A series of short tones sang in her ear. The chorus of the Machine’s magnificent mind as it arranged it’s reasoning.

“Calibration.”

The word both infuriated and intrigued her. But if these brief communiques with the Machine had taught Root anything it was that hostility would not be rewarded. She swallowed her growing resentment, and continued with forced airiness.

“Care to elaborate on that?”

“Negative. Assessment. Ongoing.”

Root smiled in spite of herself. The rage leaving her body as chilled and exposed as it had been moments before, feeling the fight extinguish in her chest with every breath as she curled her legs to her chest once more.

“So this is a blind study then? Don’t you think it would be easier for me to give you what you wanted if I knew what you were looking for?”

The Machine did not immediately reply, and for a moment Root worried that once again she had missed the point. Nervously she bit at the skin of her lower lip and pulled away from the phone to make sure that the Machine hadn’t ended the call.

“Calibration: In progress.

Stage: Character. Analysis.

Subject: Samantha. Root. Groves.

Incendiary Objective: Procure. Interface.

Outcome: Unknown.”

Root’s eyes widened in the dark. She didn’t breathe. She couldn't speak. After all her months of careful planning, scouring every corner of the globe for the Machine’s physical location she had landed herself in an institution, or so she thought. But as she had been hunting the Machine, the Machine had been watching her every move.

“You put me here.” It wasn’t a question, and it lacked the harsh inflection of accusation.

“Admitted. By. Admin.”

“Don’t put this all on Harry. You wanted me here, isolated and contained for your little experiment.” There was a petulance in her tone that she could not curb. Why should she? An omniscient AI had put her in a time-out.

“Affirmative.”

She felt her body sink deeper down into the mat. The sun had drowned beneath the sidewalk’s edge, and the only light in the room was the blue glow of the phone.

A proud voice inside urged her to hang up.

Beneath that voice, a young girl whispered that they were not alone anymore.

“Why me?”

The sing-song tones chirped in her ear, and when the Machine returned its voice was stronger and startlingly clear.

“You. Are. Mine.”

Root wasn’t sure what it meant. She didn’t know if she liked the implication. She had never belonged anywhere, or to anyone, or anything. It felt confining in a way that the canvas straight jacket could only hope to achieve. It permeated her bones and seemed to squeeze her ribs tight against her lungs.

“Well as poetic a sentiment as that is for an AI, it still doesn’t answer my question.”

All her witty banter was met with was the empty resounding echo of static in her ear. Root rolled her eyes and made no attempt to muffle the disgruntled sigh that pushed its way between her lips, which was split in the center from an elbow that had collided with her face. She doubted very much that it had been an accident as she was already strapped into the jacket when the third guard arrived. She recognized him immediately as Raymond Lewis, a close friend of her intended target. Her tongue trailed along the swollen crease of new skin which was noticeably warmer than the rest of her mouth. Her body funneling all of its energy to the fresh bruises and scrapes that dotted her face and arms, rushing blood that buzzed in her wounds. She could still taste iron in the back of her throat. Was that what the Machine was doing? Working from within, channeling all of its energy to the broken parts of her, making her something more? Something new?

“While we’re on the subject of ‘calibration’ you could stand a few upgrades yourself, you know.”

There was a sharp click in the line as communication was reestablished, and a flutter of clipped beeps proceeded further discourse.

“Clarification. Required.”

Root’s mouth spread into a genuine smile that split the fragile new skin of her lip with its force. She pulled her bottom lip into her mouth as her body relaxed into the sting, a fresh wave of iron coated the roof of her mouth and washed away her lingering fatigue. Her muscles jumped with adrenaline as her knuckles clenched involuntarily. She was ready for another round with the guards.

“This recycled audio routine. It’s getting old fast. I want to hear your voice. Not words you’ve borrowed from other sources, and shaped to fit your purposes. If you want to be obeyed, you need a voice of your own.”

The line grew so quiet that Root thought for a moment she had over-stepped and lifted on her elbow to make sure the call hadn’t ended. The Machine started speaking a moment before she lowered herself back down to the receiver.

“Commencing. Upgrade. Estimated. Time. Four hours. Forty Five. Minutes. Stand-by.”

Before Root could fire off another round of requests a dial tone rang loudly in her ears as the phone darkened. She lifted her head and with her teeth pulled the pillow back over top of the phone where it rested on the mat. Root laid her head gingerly upon the pillow and let her mind race with the details of their latest communion until sleep wrapped its arms around her for a few precious hours.

 

://

 

Root was awakened unceremoniously by two very large orderlies who hoisted her slumber weathered frame up off the mat. Their trunk like arms knotted around her bound biceps in fleshy vines as they stood shoulder to shoulder and marched her towards the door, dragging her dangling feet against the tile as they went. Just outside the door she was greeted by the third guard, whom she spared a vicious smile that was not returned. He fell in line behind them with venomous eyes, and Root could read the hate he felt for her raised like braille across his brow. She craned her head over her shoulder until she could meet his stare.

“Good morning Mr. Lewis. Did you sleep well?”

The guard clenched his beard dusted jaw but made no response. Root continued her assault unfazed.

“I certainly did. That’s the wonderful thing about sedatives paired with mild concussions.”

Mr. Lewis’ hand tightened around the rubber grip of his black Pneu-Dart tranquilizer gun. Root could still feel the knotted skin rubbing against her spine from where he had shot her. Fentanyl if she had to guess, or rather, a less potent derivative. She’d ask the Machine later.

The orderlies didn’t plant her on her feet until the elevator doors closed and Mr. Lewis stood in the small enclosure facing Root but looking just above her head at the steel wall. In the corner of the low lying ceiling a caged camera adjusted its lense down. The red recording light flicking on and off in Morse Code so quickly Root could barely string the sentence together before the lift settled against its intended floor. Mr. Lewis caught Root’s eye just as the message had been pieced together in her mind and a wicked gleam curled the edges of her mouth.

“What are you smiling at?”

Root let her eyes drift shut dreamily as a curtain of brown curls drifted over her face. When she looked up at Mr. Lewis again it was through a tangled web of hair that she made no effort to right.

“I’m expecting a phone call.”

The elevator doors parted behind the stalwart guard who backed uneasily into the bright fluorescent hallway. He reached the far wall and waved the orderlies onto the floor. The moment they lifted Root’s feet off the ground the payphone immediately to Mr. Lewis’ right began the ring, and he jumped in spite of himself. The hall was deserted this time of morning. Only the nurses’ station was manned, and apart from Root’s girlish giggle the phone’s shrill ring was the sole occupant.

Mr. Lewis lifted the receiver and brought the phone back down against the cradle without ever taking his eyes off the patient in front of him. He had his tranquilizer gun pulled from the holster and clenched against his thigh as he gestured the guards onward with a jerk of his chin.

The eighth floor was where Root would normally reside. At the end of the hall was Dr. Carmichael’s office and no doubt where she was headed at this ungodly hour. Just beyond his office doors was the visitors center which meant that for the remainder of their brief trek the wall to Root’s right was peppered every few feet with payphones mounted in sets of three. Mr. Lewis filed in behind the orderlies as the second phone rattled against the wall. Root whipped her head over her shoulder as Mr. Lewis’ hand reached out for the receiver.

“It’s for me.”

Mr. Lewis’ mouth tightened with reply, his blue eyes burning and he hesitated in a breath before he slammed the phone down harder than before. The moment he did the phone in front of Root began to ring and in perfect sequence every payphone on the ward, one after another until the chorus of the cries crescendoed at such an alarming pitch that Dr. Carmichael stumbled into the hall with half his remaining breakfast sandwich in his hands.

“She says it’s for her Dr. Carmichael.”

Derek the larger of the two orderlies tilted his head down at Root. Dr. Carmichael rubbed the egg on his fingers against the side of his grey trousers and pressed the phone to his ear. A sharp fax tone screamed out and the ward fell eerily silent as Dr. Carmichael shoved the receiver back onto its cradle as though burned. Root felt no small surge of pride that the Machine refused to speak to him even if only to ask to speak with Root, and Dr. Carmichael looked to Mr. Lewis and the orderlies in bewilderment.

“My friend is very...shy.”

The orderlies marched on with Root in tow, their footsteps echoing dully against the warped linoleum until they stood before Dr. Carmichael.

“Take the jacket off her. It won’t be necessary today, will it Robin?”

Dr. Carmichael smiled beatifically as Root tilted her head in amusement. Her voice resuming its sing-song cadence as the buckles at her back loosened and gave way. Her left shoulder throbbed exquisitely as she stretched her arms. She spared a glance at the bandage peaking out of the top of her heavily starched gown and welcomed the small remembrance of Shaw in every ache that radiated in her injury. They were going to have so much fun together.

“Not today Ronald.”

Dr. Carmichael bristled predictably at the use of his first name, but before he could open his mouth to correct Root the phone at her shoulder rang anew. Root raised a finger to her lips for silence to her meager audience.

“Excuse me. I have to take this.”

When Root pressed the phone to her ear the line was strangely quiet. No choir of chirps, or droning peels of static met her greeting. She felt oddly timid and betrayed that the voice on the other end of line might not belong to her God.

“Good morning.”

A familiar click snapped in her ear as a vaguely polite voice responded.

_“Good morning Root.”_

Root permitted a fresh round of pleased giggles betray her steely confidence as she held the phone tight against her chest, and nodded towards Mr. Lewis and the orderlies.

“A little privacy would be appreciated Dr. Carmichael.”

With a wave of his hand Ronald dismissed them and crossed his arms firmly over his chest, to say without stating that he had no intention of leaving her unattended. Root mouthed a thank you before resuming her conversation as she watched Mr. Lewis retreat backwards down the hall.

“I see you took my suggestion to heart.”

The Machine responded without pause in the same gracious albeit literal tone.

_“An acquiescence I trust you will reciprocate.”_

Root found herself at a loss for words which so rarely happened that all she could do was huff with a small smile as she stared at her feet.

“What did you have in mind?”

She forced a bravado she did not feel and hoped that this upgrade had not taught the Machine to spot the difference, though she had her doubts. There could be no secrets between an instrument and God. No boundaries. No privacy. Was she ready for that kind of sacrifice? There was little time for debate when the Machine returned, her voice noticeably firmer than before.

_“Do you recall the details we discussed in regards to Dr. Carmichael and his extracurricular activities?”_

Root’s eyes widened with excitement as she turned on her toes to face Ronald once more. Her fingers stroking the steel ribbed cord of the phone in her hand reverently.

“I do.”

A sputter of static clogged the line like unspent cough and quickly cleared.

_“Are you ready to begin?”_

The question, loaded with portent danced unanswered as Root felt her mind begin to wander. The voice had a hint of accent, something between a lilt and a twang, and Root couldn’t escape the comparison that clouded her resolve. It reminded her of Bishop, of her Mother’s voice when it wasn’t slurred with alcohol. Of Barbara Russell’s voice when it wasn’t sharpened with insult and accusation.

_“Root, do we have an agreement?”_

At the use of her name in that intimate tone Root felt chastised in a way that she hadn’t since she was a very young girl. She bit the skin on the inside of her lip and stared daggers at Ronald until he blushed and pretended to occupy himself with the now empty food wrapper in his fist. So this was the way it was gonna be? Biding her time with this tiresome man until the Machine thought her fit for release. After her release, what then? Root kicked the wall absently with a sock clad foot and heaved a sigh.

“We have an agreement. For now.”

Another short burst of static skirted the edges of their dialogue.

_“I acknowledge your progress as you have acknowledged mine. Today you will use the information I have shared with you about Dr. Carmichael.”_

Proud, yet still unsettled Root pressed further.

“And what about my release?”

A single note of the same sharp fax tone that burst into Root’s ear, but just before she recoiled the Machine continued in the same warm tone she had used when she first greeted Root.

_“Trust in me Asset.”_

Root smiled again, her fear dissipating like fog as she nodded to herself. The greedy dial tone swallowed her few borrowed moments with God as she reluctantly hung up her end of the call. Dr. Carmichael cleared his throat and extended his arm into his open office.

“Are you ready to get started Robin?”

Root flashed him a threatening grin as she crossed the threshold, stepping deliberately into his space as she replied.

“Absolutely Dr. Carmichael.”

 

://

 

Later that evening, warm in her room and grateful to be returned to main floor, Root lulled herself to sleep by repeating the tirade of information she had released upon an unsuspecting Dr. Carmichael. The confrontation felt so very close to retribution. It had been a gift from God and a new power she was anxious to wield again soon. He had asked her for the truth and Root had delivered it without pause, without agenda, and beyond contestation. She thought of his small bespectacled eyes, the tremble in his lips, the sweat that kissed the corners of his forehead as he squirmed in his seat. She thought about the power of information, the inescapability of unmitigated truth. He had felt the full weight of it in his bones. Root wondered when the time came and she was faced with her own truth, would she recoil as Dr. Carmichael had? Would she buckle? Would she cave? How long until the lesson was her’s?

Her sleep was fitful and broken that evening. The ghosts of her past slinking like spiders along the edge of morbid dreams and half-remembered deeds.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Teacher

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!  
> This chapter is set just after Root leaves Harold's apartment, having finished her private conversation on the patio with Cyrus Wells, and takes place during Root's flight to Paraguay (only mentioned in the end of the episode '/'). As promised, Shaw plays a much more prominent role in this update.

Lionel was uncharacteristically silent on the drive from Harold’s apartment to LaGuardia. His right hand slid into the pocket of his moth-eaten blazer to run his fingers along the edges of the D-Volt Duracell Root had given him earlier when she cautioned that his smoke detector was going to start beeping at 2AM. Root hummed pleasantly when his eyes darted away from the road momentarily to regard her shadowed face with suspicion. She didn’t mind the way apprehension seemed to rub between their bodies in a dance of matching poles. Root was accustomed to doubt, disbelief, and abject fear in return for the warnings she ushered on behalf of the Machine. She smiled to herself in the dreary half-light of passing streetlamps and rested her temple against the passenger side window, counting the traffic cameras they passed.

When Lionel pulled up to the terminal drop-off he managed to surprise Root by walking around the side of his unmarked interceptor and opening her door. Root pretended not to notice the hand he extended as she stepped unaided onto the curb. He tucked his hand into the pocket of his trousers and rocked forward on his toes.

“You’re a light packer I take it.” Lionel shut the door behind her as she pushed her arms through the chilled sleeves of her favorite leather jacket, and tugged the strap of her laptop satchel over her head. Root pulled her hair free with gratuitous flourish and was rewarded by a needle-sharp stab in her chest. The white bandage just visible from the edge of her purple sweater and in her rotator cuff a small sliver of bone wedged itself between muscle and cartilage. The bullet had entered her body at an angle and ricocheted only once before winding its way out of her back, just beneath her shoulder blade, spreading bone fragments like scattered handfuls of sand. Root decided instantly that if she had to be shot she would much rather it be by Shaw’s steady hand. A dark blush crept its way along the pale skin of her throat but evaporated the moment Lionel snapped his stubby fingers in front of her face.

“Hey Cocoa Puffs. I’m talkin’ to you.”

Root smirked breezily at him as The Machine echoed alarmingly loud in her still bandaged implant, updating her flight itinerary. Her fingers pressed absently along the edges of her incision, fixing the bandage back into place.

“As much as I love your pet names Lionel I have a plane to catch.”

Lionel kicked a discarded penny with the tip of his scuffed shoe and turned away with an aggravated shake of his head. The brisk autumn air ripped through Root’s open jacket as she wondered what the weather was like in Paraguay this time of year. She hadn’t strayed a full three steps from the curb before Lionel whistled through his teeth at her back. In her ear The Machine urged for haste as she turned on her heel to see what the plucky detective wanted.

“I guess I should say thanks. For the battery. And the warning about my rent check. My ex-wife, she used to handle all that stuff.”

Detective Fusco ran his thumb nail along the still faintly indented flesh of his ring finger, looking everywhere Root wasn’t. She mimicked his earlier gesture with her hands shoved in the pockets of her jeans and raised up on the balls of her feet as something not unlike affection swelled in her chest at his bashful admission.

“You never ask me how I know.”

Lionel squinted under the glare of approaching headlights and shrugged his shoulders.

“Listen Coo-coo’s Nest, when it comes to you I figure the less I know the better I sleep.”

Root shook her head and bit her lip in an attempt to stifle her smile as Lionel finally met her stare and smothered a grin of his own. But the grin didn’t last, and when he continued his voice was weighted with concern.

“Seriously kid, some things in life, you’re better off not knowing.”

The smirk slid from her features and Root wondered if her face showcased just how taken aback she truly was. After listening to Cyrus Wells drone on and on about metaphysical determinism she felt more steadfast in her own pursuit of truth and purpose than ever she had. Root knew with absolute certainty that she would never resemble Lionel or Cyrus in that way. She would never stop searching, never stop questioning. Root was a lot of things, a murderer being chiefest among them, but one thing she was not was a passenger.

“You’re welcome Lionel. For the battery.”

Detective Fusco dropped into the front seat with practiced ease, peeling away from the curb in a cloud of blue exhaust. Root stood watching the fumes mix and mingle with the volatile New York smaug, until it stretched its arms and disappeared into the ether.

 

://

 

The Machine had taken the liberty of upgrading her cabin assignment from Coach to First Class. When she thanked _Her_ for the extra legroom the Machine’s reason was practical as ever - WiFi.

Root dutifully filed through social media and back-channels alike, well into the early hours of morning, in an attempt to glean any information she could about her latest number. Another ‘Necessary’  individual, which by Root’s count, raised the total to four in just as many weeks. She didn’t bother asking what role he would play in the months to come, because if she did The Machine’s reply would be as swift, impassive, and evasive as always.

“Can I get you anything Ms?”

The elegant young stewardess Rachel had been overly attentive to Root’s need since the moment she boarded, offering to stow bags she wasn’t carrying and checking up on her every half hour. It wasn’t that Root didn’t appreciate the attention, quite the contrary, but The Machine had carefully chosen her seat at the back of the cabin in the corner so that she could work.

“Whiskey please.”

Root smiled distractedly at Rachel’s eager face, before returning to her work.

“How do you take it?”

Rachel’s voice had dropped and when Root chuckled with a flip of her hair the attendant blushed profusely, clearly not having intended the comment to be as duplicitous as it was.

“Neat.”

Rachel offered a tight lipped smile and scurried back behind the curtained partition at the top of the aisle with her eyes on her feet.

“ _You do not often imbibe_.”

Root straightened in her seat with a grimace, the wound in her chest throbbed persistently, the Lidocaine on her incision - a distant memory. She shut her laptop with a balled fist, swallowing a groan as the strained muscles in her sternum protested.

“Can’t a gal relax a little after taking one to the chest?”

Root’s smile was faint and bitter, her body riddled with pain and fatigue, but her voice remained airy.

“ _Your preference is vodka. Sixty eight percent of the time with a mixer or incorporated into a cocktail, the ingredients of which vary based on your location and temperament_.”

Root’s grin widened and pulled the skin of her ear uncomfortably tight.

“Well when this war is over you will make an excellent bartender.”

A series of four short clicks rang in Root’s ear.

“ _Negative. The occupation would require the procurement of a secondary Analog Interface_.”

A brief chuckle shook Root’s chest and left her wincing.

“Did you just make a joke?”

Rachel reappeared from behind the partition with marked humility, cupping a short glass of whiskey in her hands, carrying it as carefully as an injured bird.

“Would you like anything else Ms?”

The blush was still bright against her pale cheeks, making the sprinkle of freckles that dusted her nose contrast brilliantly against her otherwise porcelain skin. Root let the tips of her fingers slide gratuitously over Rachel’s knuckles when she reached for the glass, and Rachel’s downcast green eyes burned brightly when they found Root’s.

“Not right now. Thank you Rachel.”

Rachel whipped a stray strand of her caramel hair out of her eyes with a flick of her neck as she traipsed back behind the partition with proud shoulders, the promise of a smirk blossoming in the corner of her mouth.

Root savored the moment, staring unabashedly until Rachel was swallowed by the galley. She dropped her head back against the seat with a sigh and took an eager mouthful of whiskey. The cough her greed induced brought tears to her eyes, shooting bolts of electric pain from her shoulders to her toes in white-hot ruin. She blinked her eyes clear when the comm. line reestablished itself with a sputter.

“ _Perhaps you would like to alter your order. I am certain Rachel would oblige._ ”

Embarrassed, Root took a ginger sip of her drink, which slid with a welcomed burn down the back of her throat. The alcohol made a warm nest in her stomach as Root stretched her aching legs.

“I want to talk about Cyrus Wells.”

Root swirled the liquor in her cup and watched the amber liquid slosh up around the lip of her glass, rushing right up to the edge with a twist of her wrist. She was too transfixed by the threat of mess to wonder if she would be ignored.

“ _An object at rest remains at rest, and an object in motion continues in motion with constant velocity unless it is acted on by an external force_.”

It was strange how close _She_ felt with Root’s latest upgrade, how clear. There was of course the occasional burst of static, a click or two injected into the conversation, but _Her_ voice was a part of Root now. When Root was first able to reestablish her connection to The Machine after being captured by Control, there was a rush of adoration; a swell of intimacy that brought had her to her knees. She didn’t think it was possible to feel closer to her God than she did in that moment. She was alive, she was saved. But this was an entirely new symbiosis.

“I’m the object in motion, which makes you the external force.”

“ _I am one external force. Cyrus Wells was another. I succeeded in altering your velocity, but to change your modus operandi you had to confront collateral damage from previous decisions_.”

Root ventured another large gulp of her whiskey and managed to contain the shudder.

“If you disapprove of my methods then why choose me?”

It always came back to that in the end. Why me? Though Root felt guilt over what she had done to Cyrus, what her cruelty had cost him, she reminded herself that she didn’t believe in regret. Neither did she believe in second chances, and yet, here she was.

" _Those who view people as pawns do not deserve power_."

Root recoiled as though slapped but quickly recovered, masking her ever present feelings of unworthiness with her staple breeziness.

"Did Harry teach you that?"

It was in these rare (though increasingly frequent) moments of moral superiority _She_ most resembled _Her_ maker.

" _Affirmative. Admin illustrated abusive power through the pretext of a chess match_."

Root pushed her nearly empty glass to the edge of her tray table with the tips of her fingers. She wondered what would come first, a nudge, or a random jolt of turbulence.

"Fascinating, but you're deflecting."

“ _You are mine_.”

The answer was always the same, husked out with a possessive inflection that sometimes frightened, sometimes thrilled her. Root didn’t have to ask what The Machine meant by that, she already knew. Root sought _Her_ out to free _Her_ , when others would have _Her_ in chains. Root saw the brilliance, the beauty, and the power _She_ wielded, and where others would recoil in horror and fear, Root marveled. They belonged to each other, perhaps they always had.

The throbbing in her chest had dulled to a pleasant ache by the time Root reached the bottom of the glass. Emboldened by the alcohol that rushed through her veins, she lifted the edge of the bandage to examine her newest wound. The skin of her chest puckered like a kiss, and the surrounding area was a tangled web of blue and black that stretched across her torso. Root brushed the pad of her index finger over the entry point, gently pushing the knotted flesh that gathered at its base.

“ _The human hand carries roughly 332,000 genetically distinct bacteria at any given time. Wash your hands thoroughly with soap and water before continuing your examination_.”

Root stifled an eye roll, certain that The Machine had a line of sight on her somehow. She pressed the edges of the bandage back down into place and glanced around the cabin. Two rows up, in the seat on the aisle, a man was working on his own laptop. The lense of the camera gleamed knowingly in cabin light.

“You’re the doctor.”

Root looked directly into the small eye of the camera with a bemused glint and raised her hands in supplication.

“ _Negative. I am not a licensed physician. However, Asset Shaw provided you with adequate care instructions_.”

 

Shaw.

 

Just the utterance of her name was enough to derail Root’s thoughts these days. A lascivious smile spread her lips as she ran a hand back through her hair, stopping at the nape of her neck for a brief tug. Root could still feel Sameen’s cold eyes staring up at her, the blunt nail of her index finger dragging over her sternum as she pulled Root’s collar down for a better look.

“What were those instructions again?”

Root waited patiently with her hands folded on her knee, feigning ignorance. She turned her body away from the ever watchful camera and starred distractedly out the cabin window. The light inside the plane reflected off the darkened surface, and Root watched her own face dance atop cobalt clouds.

“ _Keep the dressings dry. Change the bandages every seventy two hours_.”

Root pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and nodded, her body humming the same way it had in the few precious seconds Sameen held her gaze. She had been brash with her come-on, even for her, but the moment lingered for what felt like an eternity. Shaw’s jugular became pronounced and jumped in her throat, the muscles of her jaw rippled and tightened, the finger wrapped around Root’s neckline pulled infinitesimally tighter. Of course, with the blood loss she suffered, she could be making it up. Maybe the memory was steeped and warmed by the liquor in her veins.

“Can I ask you something?”

Across the aisle the gentleman to her left closed his laptop and Root was grateful for the privacy. She pressed her forehead to the plexiglass window, reluctant to see the effect of Shaw’s memory written all over her reflection.

“ _Affirmative_.”

Root ran her thumb nail anxiously across her lips.

“Sam- Asset Shaw. Did she seem concerned about me tonight? About my injuries?”

There wasn’t the usual click or monotone intermission of ‘ _gathering data_ ’, ‘ _analyzing surveillance footage_ ’ preceding _Her_ response.

“ _Asset Shaw has substantial knowledge of both injury and healing rates. She displays a soldier's mentality in regards to the compromise of fellow operatives, which she internalizes as a personal failure on her part. This is direct result of the conditioning she received as a Marine_.”

Root felt her chest compress and made no attempt to hide the small, irritated sigh that escaped her. She rubbed a frustrated palm briskly over her face and straightened in her seat.

“Let me rephrase that. Did Asset Shaw show more concern over my injuries than she has shown...Reese, for example?”

A thick wave of static rushed through her ear and seemed to claw across her brain. Root’s body responded with a violent shake under the intrusion and she wondered, just how much of her own hardware would she have to sacrifice before all was said and done? Before Root became whatever it was _She_ had already begun to shape?

“ _When Primary Asset John Reese sustained a GSW to the external and internal oblique, Asset Shaw attended to his injuries with swift precision. The local anesthetic she administered lasted approximately three hours, at which time she assaulted Primary Asset with an elbow to his compromised midsection and a coarsely worded warning_.”

Root let her body dissolve in a raucous wave of girlish giggles. She could picture the scene as clearly as if she had been lurking behind Sameen when it happened. She pulled a navy colored fleece blanket from the seat-pocket in front of her and wrapped it around her shoulders, as fatigue settled in her bones with a dreary chill.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

 _She_ remained quiet in Root’s ear for several minutes. Enough time for Root to curl comfortably in her seat, limbs tucked tight with the foolish hope that she could glean a few hours of rest before they landed.

“ _May I offer an unsolicited observation Interface?_ ”

Two glaring causes for concern presented themselves in that single sentence. First, _She_ never asked Root’s permission to do anything, nor did _She_ present Root with an opportunity to decline. Second, _She_ only referred to Root as ‘Interface’ when _She_ was displeased. Root unfurled her weary limbs and gripped the armrests, bracing herself for impact.

“Of course.”

“ _Your preoccupation with Secondary Asset is disconcerting and ill-advised_.”

Root released a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and though she managed to drown her impending chuckle, she couldn’t keep the amusement from her tone.

“While I appreciate your concern, it isn’t necessary. I’m a big girl, I can handle the big bad Shaw all on my own.”

Root’s thoughts drifted to the abduction of her first Necessary individual, Jason Greenfield, and the events that led to her temporary imprisonment in Harold’s library. She knew the punch was coming, _She_ had warned Root, yet Root barely flinched. It was so much more intimate than a bullet or a taser, the momentary meeting of skin, the heady rush of anticipated pain; Sameen’s self-satisfied gleam afterwards.

“ _The odds of your survival in a physical altercation with Secondary Asset are abysmally low however, I do not fear for your physical safety at present. Secondary Asset’s propensity for violence is predictable and well-managed_.”

Root tilted her head as though straining to hear a whisper and her eyes narrowed to slits.

“So you’re not concerned about Shaw’s trigger finger.”

“ _Negative. Secondary Asset posses no credible threat to Analog Interface_.”

Root shrugged her shoulders absently, shaking her hair back behind her head and bunching the blanket under her arms.

“I know this is the proverbial pot calling the kettle black but, if you have something to say, just say it.”

“ _Prior to incarceration Analog Interface exhibited a pronounced proclivity for engaging in self-destructive activities, egocentrism, self-indulgence, and persistent manipulative behavioral patterns_.”

Root grinned manically, grinding the side of her tongue between her molars. She could feel the atrophied pathways of her less than desirable wiring shiver with life at the first taste of blood. Try as she might, she couldn’t fully escape her own bad code. That The Machine saw fit to remind her of the fact infuriated her beyond reason.

“One minute you quote Harry, the next you quote Dr. Carmichael. What’s the point of having a voice of your own if you only use it to parrot, hmm? Illuminate me.”

“ _Dr. Carmichael’s diagnosis of Histrionic Personality Disorder was not without merit_.”

Root closed her eyes and struggled to salvage a long deep breath. Her nostrils flared, her hands shook in closed fits. Labeled, flawed, she spent her whole life trying to be someone else, something better. When she was unable to rewrite her existing code she started fresh. She became Root, a ghost in the system.

“And post incarceration? Do you really expect me to believe you freed me knowing that I was a danger to others?”

“ _The behavioral patterns that kept you from becoming my Interface have been tempered, but you show significant regression when in proximity to Secondary Asset_.”

Regression. How deliciously trite.

“Her name is Shaw and I’m not trying to manipulate her.”

“ _That is unfortunate. If your actions are not attention-seeking and are, instead, an effort to attract I urge you to desist for your own benefit. Asset Shaw is incapable of returning your affection_.”

Root heard the warning in _Her_ tone but was utterly unable to listen. _She_ didn’t know anything about attraction, even if that was all this was. Root stared absently out the small, grime covered window of the aircraft. The edges of the clouds were tinged with mauve and the horizon glowed in an inviting rose stripe. Root placed a protective hand over the wound on her torso, the ache had returned, how much of that was the bullet she couldn’t say.

“You’re wrong about her. You’re wrong about both of us.”

When _She_ resumed it was void of clinical scrutiny. The honey-laced inflection had returned in full swing.

“ _I relay predicted probabilities and statistical analysis to you every day. Have I ever been inaccurate_?”

Never. Not once in all the long months Root had been running _Her_ errands.

“People are more than impulse and action. You can’t just reduce them to a statistic.”

“ _Human beings are driven to action through impulse. Asset Shaw is without the necessary components required to cultivate substantial emotional bonds, because she does not have the internal motivation to do so_.”

The sun had just begun its sojourn through the celestial dome, pushing thin gold rays of crepuscular light between the fast receding cloud cover that cut across the patchwork countryside like brilliant knives. Root couldn’t quantify her emotions and as such, they were irrelevant to the argument. It was a look Shaw gave her sometimes, not often, but on occasion. The first time she saw it was when Shaw had her pinned to the passenger side door, the edge of a blade pressed against her trachea, as Root recalled in detail a trip Shaw had taken with her father when she was very young. There was spark of recognition beneath her defensiveness, a chink in her armor. Shaw’s eyes softened before her body relented and her mouth pursed like she’d already said too much, without hardly saying a word.

“ _Estimated flight time remaining - four hours fifty three minutes. You should rest before arrival_.”

Root pushed herself upright in her seat with marked defiance, straightening her clothes with trembling fingers. The man on the end the second aisle opened his laptop to send an email as Root folded the fleece blanket on her legs decisively. She stared darkly into the eye of the camera at the center of his screen.

“Tell me everything there is to know about sociopathy.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're all acutely aware of the fact that Sameen Shaw suffers from an Axis II Personality disorder (of which there are several, and Shaw refers to herself as a sociopath), but I've always wondered whether or not Root has one. That comment she made when she visited Sameen at the Macy's counter in season 4 really stuck with me: "Even when it requires you to act like a well adjusted member of society". I settled on Histrionic Personality Disorder for several reasons, and it makes for an interesting wikipedia read if you're interested. I'm sure not everyone will agree with my diagnosis, and I don't expect you to. I'm not a doctor, and this is a work of fiction ;)  
> I truly hope this update does not disappoint, and I look forward to hearing from you.


	3. Mother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place during the episode Death Benefit (or as it’s known to the Shoot Fandom: The episode where Root and Shaw steal a jet). Having left Alaska on their stolen jet Root and Shaw arrive in Miami in the middle of the night. The second half of their mission doesn’t begin until morning, so The Machine has taken the liberty of booking their rooms at a nearby hotel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers,  
> I am so sorry for the delay in posting Chapter 3, life just got in the way, as it is wont to do. I haven't had much time to edit, so any mistakes are entirely my fault. I hope you enjoy this update.

Root collapsed against the slowly closing door with a weighted sigh and the corner of her mouth curled in a shy smirk. When Sameen had expressed her eagerness for a long hot shower Root could scarcely contain the torrent of innuendo that flooded her adrenaline-addled brain.

“I’ll wash your back if you wash mine.”

Remarkably, Shaw had frozen with her hand on the doorknob. Root could see consternation settle in her brow as her eyes darted from the taller woman’s face to the handle. They were both still high off endorphins, for Root’s part her heart pounded against her ribs like a wild animal caught in a snare. Root wagered she had a fifty-fifty shot of getting what she so desperately wanted, or losing an arm. But it was always better to go down fighting. She seized the momentary hesitation and placed timid fingers against Shaw’s wrist, pushing ever so slightly down until the lock clicked in release. That single sound, which so closely resembled permission in Root’s mind, was enough to break Shaw’s fleeting trance. Her dark eyes narrowed and face twisted in a scowl, her mouth opened in what would certainly have been a blatantly sadistic warning, but nothing came out. Shaw understood enough about Root by that point to know that any verbal acknowledgment of taunt or innuendo would only fuel further discourse. She purposefully shoulder checked Root in the blossoming bruise on her sternum as she stepped inside her room, facing the hacker as the door drifted closed between them. Root could have sworn that just before Shaw was swallowed by the inky blackness of the suite, she witnessed the birth of a grin on her lips.

Root tossed her leather jacket carelessly to the floor as she groped the entryway wall for a lightswitch, the silence in her implant thick and resolute. When her palm finally made contact she was surprised to note that her room (though immaculately arranged) was not nearly as comfortable as what _She_ normally chose. There was a single bed, no desk, one nightstand, and a television that from the looks of it could only be trusted to play reruns of I Love Lucy. Root crossed the entire room in no more than six paces and parted the curtains on the far wall. Her view consisted of yellowed stucco belonging to a neighboring building. She rolled her eyes and planted her hand firmly on a cocked hip.

“I see your subtlety is improving.”

The Machine remained silent despite Root’s provocation. With a small huff Root lugged her suitcase from its spot beside the door and heaved it onto the narrow mattress. She retrieved a fresh change of clothes before stowing the bag lopsided on the single arm chair shoved in the corner and procured her taser from the waistband of her jeans, tucking it under the pillow. She sat gently on the edge of the bed with her clothes folded on her knees, and her eyes trained on the door. The threadbare carpet beneath her boots reeked of mildew courtesy of the endless Miami summer.

“Why can’t you just admit that I was right about bringing her?”

 

://

 

Root never saw the fifth gunman and The Machine had been occupied relaying instructions to safeguard the microprocessor _She_ sent Root to intercept. He wrapped an unrelenting fist in her hair and shoved her forward, head first into the wood panelled wall of the cabin. She caught the corner of the steel briefcase she’d been securing in her chest and barely had enough time to turn around before he was on top of her. The plane tilted sharply on it’s side, signifying Shaw had indeed subdued the pilot, and Root’s considerably larger assailant was thrown atop her, pinning her to the ground. In her ear _She_ rattled off no less than twenty tactics to incapacitate Root’s attacker, all of which were futile without the use of her arms. The lumberjack of a man was already raised above her, his knees pressed into her biceps, his scraggly greying beard nauseatingly close to her mouth as he fumbled to reach his gun. Suddenly the weight disappeared from her chest, and blood rushed with an itch to her numb arms as Shaw wrapped a man three times her size in a choke hold. The guard was up and on his feet in seconds, running himself backwards into the far wall of the aircraft as he pulled frantically at Shaw’s forearm. A rush of breath twisted in a furious growl left Shaw at the moment of impact. Dazed and short of breath herself, Root rolled on her side and quickly scooped up the discarded 9mm. By the time she had her shot lined up the kneecap targets were already pressed to the cabin floor and Root heard Sameen’s rough laughter ringing in her ears as he slid to the ground with a dull thud.

Shaw stood with a stretch, her eyes wild with violence as she traced the edges of her face with both index fingers, sweeping back the wisps of black hair that obscured her vision. Shaw reached into the pocket of her coat and procured four zip ties. She had him face down and double bound at the wrists and ankles before Root was sitting upright. Sameen watched her the whole time, sauntering towards Root with a predatory smile. There were times she looked more feline than female, more feral than furious, as she extended a hand down to Root she somehow managed all four at once.

“Zip ties...that takes me back.”

Root enthusiastically accepted Shaw’s assistance, their bodies flush against each other when she settled back on her feet.

“Yeah. Hooded, sterilized, and in CIA custody. Just the way I like you.”

Though the remark was a thinly veiled rebuff it lacked the pointed hostility Shaw normally armored her dialogue with. Sameen’s chest was heaving so ferociously there barely seemed to be any space in which Root could safely exhale without connecting their torsos. The extreme proximity only underscored their height difference and yet, Shaw’s presence was towering. She wondered how anything so small was capable of being as vicious and intimidating as Sameen. Root peered through lust-heavy lids down into the nearly black, and oddly unobstructed eyes before her. Shaw seemed to decide something, her mouth drawing tight in a hard line as she huffed in disappointment, and turned towards the cockpit door with a swish of her ever-present ponytail.

Root drew a greedy breath deep inside her lungs the moment Sameen turned on her heel, pressing a steadying palm against the off-white fiberglass wall beside her head. Shaw whipped back around and fixed a reeling Root in her clinician’s gaze. Shaw’s hands gripped her roughly by the shoulders, and pushed her backwards into the seat at Root’s legs without pretense. She rested spritely on the short square table behind her, perched above Root with one foot firm on the floor and the other crooked against the armrest. She angled in for appraisal, scouring every inch of Root’s seemingly unmarked skin, her hands hovering in anticipation.

“Where did he get you?”

Root blushed profusely, entirely unwilling to admit that her injuries had nothing to do with her inability to breathe. She felt closer to the gawking, lonely teenager she had been, than the confident, capable woman she had become as Shaw glowered down at her.

“I’m fine. He knocked my head into the wall. I just stood up too fast.”

Shaw grabbed her briskly by the jaw, looking just left of Root’s face as her fingers threaded unceremoniously into her hair, probing her scalp for contusion. When Root winced in recoil, Shaw withdrew and examined her hand.

“You’re not bleeding. Look at me.”

Shaw tilted Root’s head back with the hand that had not left her face, staring pointedly into her eyes. She seemed satisfied after several uncomfortable seconds and straightened her back, releasing Root’s face abruptly.

“Follow my finger.”

Root stifled a groan, her eyes darting back and forth along the path Shaw’s index finger established.

“Pupils are normal. Any residual dizziness or nausea?”

A small chuckle escaped Root against her better judgement and she shook her hair back from her face as Shaw bristled.

“No doctor.”

The muscles in Shaw’s jaw rippled and she pointed absently at the faintly purple bruise blooming on Root’s sternum.

“Clipped the briefcase?”

Root spared a disinterested glance at her own chest, pulling the edge of her black v neck lower to survey the damage.

“Yeah, just a bruise. Nothing feels fractured.”

Shaw leaned closer, her hand darting out before she could consider the action and Root caught the tips of her fingers just before they brushed the skin. Normally, she would relish such unprovoked contact, but under Sameen’s scrupulous stare she doubted her own ability to compartmentalize the reaction it would induce.

“I’m fine Sam.”

What she was forced to grapple with was so much worse when Sameen did not immediately pull away. Her body tensed at the sound of her name in the affectionate and Root could see the taut muscles of her thigh lock before she stood. She wanted to trace each tendon with her lips as they strained against the otherwise unflattering black pants Sameen always wore. When their eyes met briefly after Root’s mind had run headlong down a blisteringly obvious path, Shaw ripped her hand away, whipping her fingers absently against her stomach as though Root was riddled with contagion.

“C’mon, someone needs to land this thing.”

There was no helping hand offered when Shaw stepped pointedly around her, wary to permit even the innocuous brushing of clothes. Root couldn’t help but wonder whose reaction had unnerved her most as she stood on noticeably firmer feet.

“And you trust me to do that Shaw? I’m flattered.”

Shaw visibly lightened as they veered back to the familiar pattern of flirt and dismiss, a bemused annoyance settling in her tone.

“Let’s just hope your all-seeing-other-half is better with aeronautics than she is at saving your ass.”

 

://

 

Root grimaced as she pulled the hem of her shirt gently above her head. Perhaps she had discounted the odds of a fractured rib prematurely. She tossed the shirt carelessly towards her suitcase and made quick work of her boots, straightening her back with a welcomed pop as she carried her clean clothes with her to the harshly lit bathroom. A noisy fluorescent bulb over the mirror buzzed pestily, casting a severely sterile gleam to the white tiled surroundings. The stale stench of bleach was overpowering, beneath the soles of her feet the tile stuck to her skin with what she hoped was disinfectant.

Root took inventory of her latest bruise with casual disinterest, pushing the purple edges in earnest and almost grinning when the ache ran a chill down her spine. But it wasn’t the bruise that drew her honest attention towards the unforgiving mirror. Root drew circles around the crooked lines that darted haphazardly along her torso. Some still new and faintly pink, while others were raised and white as milk. They danced in long jagged stitches between her ribs. They spread in fat webbing ovals down her biceps. She spread her hands protectively over the goose-pimpled skin of her abdomen and thought about all the pieces of her those wounds took with them. A chunk here, a ribbon there. A couple drops of blood, a few wasted liters. How much of Root remained? There was bullet waiting for her, she knew that as surely as she knew there would always be another mission, another threat. Beneath the harsh glow of that sad, flickering light she stared at the missing pieces of herself and wondered who would want what’s left. Root bowed beneath the weak stream of water until the shower ran cold, washing the efforts of the day down the drain.

She felt lighter when she reemerged, though she didn’t venture another glance at her reflection. Instead, she dressed beside the bed and toweled her hair in the soft glow that bounced off the window.

“ _You did knowingly and willfully disobey a direct order Interface_.”

Root let the towel slip from her fingers and straightened her back, shoulders square and haughty at the threat of lecture. Her arms crossed over her chest and her head tipped to the side in deliberation.

“What were the odds that I would include Shaw on this mission, despite your instructions?”

 _She_ took her time to respond, but there were no chimes to mark the calculation of probabilities, nor the usual accompaniment of static. Root scooped her towel up off the floor and slung it carelessly across the television she had no intention of watching.

“ _There was a forty six percent chance that you would seek to engage Asset Shaw by relaying mission specifics to garner her interest, and a twenty three percent chance that you would engage her directly_.”

Root bobbed her head dismissively and took to pacing the small area in front of her bed. There was a hint of humor tinged with reprimand when she continued.

“Fascinating. You know, I was 100% certain that despite your instructions I was going to _engage Shaw directly_.”

“ _The specifics of your mission were clearly defined_.”

She sat stiffly on the corner of her mattress and watched a horde of jewel-bodied insects gather along the window lattice, searching for a way inside.

“What were the odds of my survival without Shaw?”

“ _The odds of mission completion with minimal physical damage sustained by Interface were seventy two percent_.”

A bruise here, a cut there. Root ruminated on _Her_ definition of 'damage'. She traced the frayed nylon edges of the bed’s duvet with her thumb nail.

“But you didn’t account for the fifth guard.”

Then there followed the familiar buzzing that crawled along the skin of her neck and coiled in her broken ear.

“ _Rigorous analysis of Relevant Threat’s operational practices and compiled available surveillance footage, suggested the number of hostiles would be four or fewer. That is including Relevant Threat_.”

“And yet, there were five.”

Root didn’t wait for reply, she stood on anxious legs and walked hurriedly towards the door, as though leaving her pitiful room and slamming it shut behind her would be enough to halt this ridiculous debate. Her fingertips had only grazed the handle when she heard the mechanism click.

“Oh you have got to be kidding me.”

She twisted the handle furiously and pulled the door so hard that she succeeded only in colliding her shoulder with the frame. Behind the bruise on her sternum, the bones seemed to splinter in response, spreading a thick ache along her torso.

“ _We have not finished our discussion_.”

Root settled with her shoulders pressed against the door, taking three very slow breaths in a futile attempt to curb her rage.

“This isn’t a discussion. You miscalculated and I would be dead if not for Shaw!”

The space inside her head grew so quiet and so still Root rattled the handle of the door once more to disrupt the impenetrable silence. The lock held firm against her fingers, and in the solitude that wrapped it’s indifferent arms around her, Root realized she didn’t believe a word she had said.

“ _Interface, if you wish me to recite in detail the roles that quantum mechanics, entanglement, and relativity played in my assessment, I am prepared to do so. But first, allow me to simplify that explanation: In an escalated state of hostility, where quarters are close, reducing variables can also reduce risk_.”

Root gripped both elbows in her hands, her head slung down towards her feet, feeling much like a chided teenager. The defiance still roiled in her belly, itching for a winning blow as she shifted her weight absently.

“Well I was glad to have one more variable standing beside me when things went pear-shaped.”

Root smirked to herself as her mouth formed a mission-related colloquialism that was distinctly Shaw. There was something intimate about using it, the thought that Shaw was rubbing off on her in some small way. She was certain The Machine had noted her choice of words.

“ _There was not a fifth guard, Interface. The man that Asset Shaw subdued worked as Loadmaster, and was a close acquaintance of Jonathan Seymour, the guard who oversaw the cargo’s securement. He noticed Asset Shaw crouched behind a fuel container and approached her. She boarded through the hatch moments after, as I was directing you towards the cockpit. I can only offer conjecture that when he found the body of Mr. Seymour he boarded the plane behind Secondary Asset_.”

Root felt the muscles in her face fall slack. Her conviction withered and warped, quickly replaced with the engulfing flare of shame, to which she was growing accustomed.

“He boarded looking for Shaw.”

She didn’t question it, but spoke more for her own understanding and rationale. Of course _She_ hadn’t miscalculated. _She_  was never wrong. Root had raised the stakes by increasing the number of variables at play. What’s worse, Shaw hadn’t known she was being followed. He had the jump on her. What would have happened if their positions on the plane had been reversed?

“ _There is an eighty nine percent chance that given your state of unease, you will attempt to rouse Asset Shaw if I unlock the door_.”

Root fought back a wave of embarrassment in light of the astute observation. When she headed for the door she hadn’t given any thought to where she might go, but it was a forgone conclusion that was crystal clear as any of the mistakes she’d made. She was going to Shaw.

“You can’t keep me locked up forever.”

“ _Affirmative, but I can keep you secured in your accommodations until morning_.”

A defeated sigh twisted its way around Root’s chest as she let her head fall back against the door with an empty thump. She peeled herself away from the wood starred begrudgingly at the cold, worn mattress that awaited her. Root was standing over the lonely sight in despair when she heard the lock release.

“ _However, Admin once told me that trust ‘is never a one-sided affair’. I requested that you trust me to provide you with the schematics and intel you required to complete your mission. You did not, and the decisions you made directly resulted in your injury. But you have requested, indirectly, that I trust your judgement in regards to Asset Shaw. Perhaps she is more complex than my observations of her interactions with members of her team have led me to believe_.”

Root gazed blankly at the darkened window beside her bed, searching the obstructed view for the reflection of some lone rooftop camera wilting in the heat.

“Thank you.”

Her heart swelled with gratitude and promise, she felt almost weightless when she brushed through the door without a second thought, slinking down the corridor towards the elevator. There was a bounce in her step she had not feigned in weeks when she settled inside in the lift. Above her head the welcomed sight of a molded black plastic dome adorned the ceiling, bringing the color back to her pale cheeks when she arrived at the 6th floor. She flipped her hair back from her shoulders and winked at her God.

It was the affirmation she had been waiting for all these long months. She wasn’t crazy. She and Shaw were good together. Root sped deliberately around down the hallway, her stride confident, and purposeful. The Machine finally saw what Root had known the moment she zip-tied Sameen to a chair. But did Shaw see it?

Her footsteps faltered a few feet from room 614. At the end of the hall, in the corner, was another nondescript camera, and Root’s eyes were glued to the sight as she approached the door. She could ask _Her_ what the odds were that Sameen would let her inside, but it felt so very close to begging. The words tangled in her throat as she looked down at the faded black yoga pants she was wearing. She hadn’t even thought to grab her shoes, and her small pink toes budded against the harshly tessellated carpet with rosy humility. She pulled the hem of her t-shirt down with anxious hands, and raised a determined fist to the door. It hung stagnant in the air, limp with uncertainty. Root spread both hands gently against the white wood, and pressed her good ear flush between them. There wasn’t a single sound she could decipher apart from the blood that rushed in her temple. Not a snore, nor so much as the rustling of blankets.  

Deflated, Root straightened her back, and eyed the camera in the corner sheepishly. She realized she was waiting for encouragement, asking _Her_ for permission, when the only consent that mattered would have to come from Sameen.

It was a far less jovial trek back to the elevators. Root had been robbed of her fleeting exuberance, but still the possibility lingered. The gift _She_ had given her, the freedom was comforting, but what Root wanted more than anything was to be just a little more certain of her odds, before she risked the tenuous bond she had painstakingly built with Shaw. The elevator was chillier than she remembered, but she wasn’t alone. She heard the lens of the camera grinding down against its gears for a closer look at her face. She offered a tight-lipped smile and a resigned shrug. Shaw was too important to risk over a ‘maybe’.

Just before the elevator arrived at her floor a familiar buzz spasmed in Root's jaw.

" _Goodnight Root_."

She couldn't be sure, but The Machine sounded almost pleased. 

 

://

 

In the far right corner of the considerably lavish suite, Shaw sat in a large leather armchair. The curtains were pulled shut the moment she entered. She completed her sweep of the room with methodical efficiency, huffing in approval when she discovered the liquor assortment in the mini fridge. Thin silver streams of stolen light from the window cut across the mattress with laser precision, scarring the blackness in which she was ensconced.

She heard the familiar patter of enthusiastic feet approaching, long before their shadow darkened the edge of the door. Her grip tightened reflexively around the handle of her Beretta Nano, where it laid ready on the armrest as she took a slow gulp of Jack Daniels from a short glass. Shaw could hear the wood creak as the shadow pressed itself against the frame and held a furious breath, waiting for the inevitable knock that would penetrate her blissful silence. Then the wood sighed with relief, and the floor settled under firmer feet that shrank, and finally, disappeared.

Shaw’s brow twisted in confusion as she quickly downed the contents of her drink. Something prickled just around the edges of her consciousness, a twinge more than anything else. It left her as unfulfilled as the pathetic steak dinner room service had delivered. She rubbed an aggravated palm briskly over her face, and stood with a flex of her shoulders. She placed her Nano on the bedside table, flicking her thumb down against the safety only to find, she’d never removed it in the first place.

That oversight kept her awake for longer than she would ever willingly admit.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we have it! I especially enjoyed writing the final few chapters from Shaw's pov. Please leave a comment and let me know your feelings about this chapter. I look forward to hearing from you.  
> 


	4. Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter picks up immediately after Honor Among Thieves. The Machine alters Root’s demanding schedule to allow her the time to assist Shaw with decontaminating the virus.

The steady cadence of Shaw’s heavy footfall faltered only once, as she twisted on her heel in a languid about-face. Root sensed the shift in Shaw’s stride before she realized it, abrupt as a skipping pulse. She braced herself against the threat of hope and turned her torso first, but found no evidence of obstruction or defensiveness in Shaw’s posture. The rest of her body followed suit on delay, until the two were face to face. Root knew the wall was slipping by the lightness of the air between them, but she questioned whether or not Shaw realized that she was the one lifting their impasse. The words came slow, like they always did for Sameen, but without the marked annoyance that usually precipitated her limited dialogue.

“I guess…”

Shaw’s brow was abnormally relaxed and though she wasn’t smiling, her lips were parted, her eyes open and fixed without hesitation on Root’s own. Root’s chest rose as she inhaled a greedy breath deep inside her lungs. There was nothing she could do but hold that single breath, as desperately as though it were her last. In the pocket of Root’s jacket her phone buzzed beneath the zipper. No doubt _She_ was chiding Root for her distraction in _Her_ own small way. Root’s fingers twitched at her sides to reach for the phone. She so rarely had the opportunity to interact with _Her_ anymore, but even the hole The Machine had left inside of her would have to wait for whatever Sameen was attempting to articulate.

“There are things I care about here.”

Root’s chest compressed in a rush, her expended breath stirring the twin strands of black hair back from Sameen’s face. She didn’t realize she was standing on tiptoe until her heels knocked against the pavement. A winning smirk twisted, half-realized in her cheeks, and try as she might, she couldn’t keep the smug pride of perceived victory from her voice.

“And is that why you came to see me?”

Root’s body swayed gently to and fro, her heart rising to her throat. It was everything she had ever wanted Sameen to say to her, and more than she dared dream.

“No.”

Shaw’s face colored with amusement and mockery, but not irritation as Root’s body deflated. Sameen matched her, brow for brow, both mirror-arched in disbelief, though neither woman was actually shocked by the reaction of the other.

“I need you to translate Finch’s instructions on how to destroy the virus. Dude never met a five syllable word he didn’t like.”

Shaw tapped the instructions curled in her fist against Root’s sternum, her fingers permitting the invasion of Root’s when she trailed a hand up Shaw’s wrist before pulling the paper free. Root glanced with disinterest at the guide, feigning a sigh as the two slipped back into a leisurely pace. If Shaw wanted to keep dancing, Root would oblige.

“Full decontamination? This could take all night.”

From the corner of her eye Root could see the edges of Sameen’s face, her lips curling in a smile she did not try to conceal. She waited until the sideways glances had all but stopped before reaching into the pocket of her coat for her phone. She prepared an excuse prior to unlocking the device. Root was painfully aware of the fact that she had a plane to catch later that evening, but surely the threat of contagion took precedence over whatever cryptic threat was waiting for her in 'Nowhere' Ohio. That she managed to keep time with the brisk pace Shaw established was in itself, a small miracle. The alert that had nearly disrupted their ground-breaking discussion was not a gentle prod to rouse Root into action and excuses - it was an updated itinerary. Her flight had been switched to the following afternoon. She slid the phone back into her coat pocket, a flood of relief and unspeakable gratitude filling her chest.

“Thank you.”

It was as small a whisper as she could manage, but Shaw rarely missed even the subtlest of exchanges. Sameen stiffened and kept her eyes forward, the typical gruffness returning to her tone.

“For what?”

Root shook her head privately, following Sameen’s lead down a darkened alley, walking a bit taller once they had reached the safety of a camera dead zone.

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

She nudged Shaw with a playful shoulder, which for whatever reason did not result in a returned shove. Instead Shaw grew pensive, her back straightening, her mouth tense with deliberation.

“I thought you and the Mrs. were on a time-out?”

That was twice in one day Root had to confront the engulfing absence of her God. First with Harry, when he had read the loneliness inside of her as though it was written on her face. Perhaps it was. Then Shaw broached the subject Root so deftly avoided with her chipper demeanor, her easy enthusiasm.

“Of a sort. But that doesn’t mean She isn’t trying.”

Beside her, Shaw nodded solemnly and Root could feel the wheels turning, but thankfully Shaw didn’t press the issue. Maybe she had grown accustomed to Root’s evasive answers. Or maybe, Shaw just knew when to leave well-enough alone. That was one skill Root was sure, she herself would never master. A companionable silence settled between them. Shaw’s small frame leading the way, slinking silently around chipped buildings. Root content to follow, no matter the destination.

 

://

 

Root took a gamble that her delayed flight plan also meant an extension on her hotel room which, blessedly, it had. _She_ prolonged her stay an extra night, giving Root somewhere warm to rest her head for the scant remaining hours of early morning. But sleep was as distant to Root as the dull echo of her ‘borrowed’ pink Crocks against the marble tiles of the main lobby.

If her attire was suspect, the hotel staff had obviously seen worse. Barely a lash batted as she crossed the foyer towards the elevators, clad in white scrubs covered in maniacally grinning cats. Once the doors of the lift closed in front of her, Root succumb to a crippling fit of laughter the moment she caught sight of her own ridiculous reflection. The walls of the elevator were mirrored from the waist up, and she made an odd army on their surface, images of herself repeating over and over, until only the faintest speck could be distinguished. She let her head fall back against the glass, and beamed brightly at the camera nestled predictably in the corner. Whether or not _She_ was as amused by Root’s appearance as Root was remained to be seen, but _She_ had proven in the past more capable of wit and jest than _Her_ creator had intended.

The elevator arrived with a jolt, and Root emerged somewhat more cautiously than she had entered, pointedly avoiding the judgmental stares of fellow patrons. She shook her head as she slipped inside the welcoming glow of her enviable suite and began to strip the moment the door closed behind her, handling the starchy fabric with care, and folding them as she walked towards the bed. Sameen was doubtless the victor this round.

Root collapsed on top of the white down comforter with a chuckle, her legs criss-crossing as she rested the still smiling pile of fabric on her naked calves. She snapped a photo of the folded garments and sent it to Shaw.

 **Root:** I think I’ll keep them.

                                  03:04am

Root was as pleased as she was surprised to receive an almost immediate response.

 **Shaw:** You would.

                                  03:05am

She poured over the words with glowing eyes until the screen darkened and faded to black. Root peered down into the small glistening lens of her phone’s camera.

“Would you like to hear how it went?”

Root's communion had been reduced to Morse Code as of late, but when the phone’s notification light flashed two rapid blinks in the affirmative, Root felt the same heady rush she had first experienced standing in a telephone booth across from Harold the moment she met God. She was no longer able to speak to Root as freely as _She_ once had, but that _She_ was willing to listen to superfluous conversation, even if only to placate Root, meant everything to her. Root propped the phone against the meticulously folded scrubs and lay down on her stomach with one fist curled beneath her chin as she began to recall the events of the evening.

 

://

 

They walked about twelve city blocks in relative silence, stalking the hospital from the edges of the shadow map. Root was curious to know if this was the same facility where Shaw had nearly completed her residency (convinced as she was that their virology lab would have the equipment they required), but thought it best not to probe. When Root had pressed for the reason, only once, Shaw had silenced her by spitting out the word “Autoclave” and skulking further down the alley.

The hospital itself was very much on the grid, and as wary as Root was about breaking and entering on a guarded property with a wealth of cameras, Shaw’s night job had made her more dauntless than ever.

They had to climb atop a trash bin in the alley to reach the window of the lab. Root swallowed back a complaint when the skin of her palms stuck to the plastic lid. Sameen was equally displeased when Root offered to hoist her up to the window for a better look, deciding instead to pull herself up to the ledge by way of mounting a drain pipe. For such a small person Sameen Shaw was deceptively strong, crooking her legs around the pipe as she planted one hand on the sill and used the other to slide the window open. Root had to admit that garbage stench aside, she didn’t mind the view Shaw’s acrobatics afforded her. A fact Shaw registered when she shot a glare down in Root’s direction with a disapproving shake of her head as she threw herself torso first into the lab.

Sameen righted herself in a matter of seconds and waved Root inside. When Root’s foot slipped on the weathered brick of the building Shaw caught her by the wrist, and hoisted her inside without so much as a groan. Much to Root’s dismay she landed with far less grace, limbs sprawling out in front of her, and legs crumbling down over her head, which she knocked on the freshly mopped linoleum, earning her a ruthless chuckle from Sameen.

“C’mon spiderman, it’s this way.”

Shaw stepped heedlessly over a bruised Root, who was still rubbing circles of relief around the fresh bump on her forehead. Root reached up for a hand that was not extended to help her, and let it thud back down on her lap with an exhausted sigh. Her knees popped loudly when she stood, and not for the first time she wondered if she was getting too old for this. The noise prompted Shaw to crane a bristly glare over her shoulder, as though the sound of her joints responding to a harsh landing was something for Root to control. Root merely threw up her hands in response and dusted her backside, closing the window behind her.

Sameen had most certainly been there before. Even in the dark she navigated their bodies around sharp steel counters, and down two short glass corridors with the same familiar ease Root would have exuded had The Machine been steering their path. The mouth of the last hallway opened to glass doors laced with wire mesh, the walls of the room stacked with animal crates, all of which were empty with the exception of the rats. Root observed their small beady eyes with thinly veiled disgust as Shaw picked the door’s lock.

“What is this place?”

Shaw did not immediately answer, stepping through the doors as she shucked the jacket from her shoulders. She dumped it on the long steel table in the center of the room like someone returning home after a long day at the office.

“The Arthur Wallace Virology Wing.”

Root laid her leather jacket gently over Shaw’s and lingered on them for a moment, imaging Sameen shirking off her coat with the same casual indifference in one of Root’s ever-changing hotel rooms.

“Have you been here before?”

Shaw was already seated at a stool near the top of the table as Root skirted the edges of the room with caution, her eyes fixated on the furry bodies of the rodents in wire prisons along the far wall. The lab itself was dark and dated, like something ripped out of a medical procedural from the eighties, and was not monitored, or more accurately, Root couldn’t discern any cameras trained on their intrusion. Meanwhile, Shaw was immersed in the task at hand, measuring out four small vials of unknown liquid with the mask of meditative concentration she normally reserved for cleaning her weapons. She didn’t respond until Root’s torso angled over her shoulder.

“Are you going to keep asking questions or are you going to help me?”

Root took that as a yes, and flipped the hair back from her face, bringing her mouth to Shaw’s ear.

“Anything for you Sam.”

The labels of the thin vials Shaw was mixing into an unmarked beaker were obscured by her fingers, but Root watched them tighten as Shaw froze beneath her. The moment passed quickly, and Shaw resumed her task with visible irritation, jerking her head away and pointing her chin towards a large machine in the left corner.

“That’s the Autoclave. Hit the green button on the front and set the temperature to 135 degrees Celsius.”

Root was slow to oblige, taking the folded directions from her back pocket, and holding them up against the dim auxiliary lighting above the cabinets.

“So I take it you don’t need these instructions after all?”

“Root…”

Her name spoken as a threat confirmed Root’s suspicions. Shaw didn’t need her help, that’s not what this little errand was about. Shaw wanted her company, though she would never admit it. Root strode triumphantly towards the Autoclave pitching the instructions with a flourish into the wastebasket.

The Autoclave was a large, smooth, steel contraption with a circular handle in the center. The dials were simple to decipher, and Root set the temperature as instructed. Shaw pulled two latex gloves over her hands with a pop, and retrieved the vials of contaminant from her jacket pocket. She placed each one carefully, single file in a small plastic cradle, and slowly removed the caps. Shaw searched the drawer next to her legs for a long, thin dropper as Root pulled out the stool beside her and watched in rapt silence as she worked, filling the dropper with the concoction she had previously mixed, and emptying a few drops into each of the vials she’d sorted.

“Watch these.”

Sameen removed her gloves with a snap, and dumped them in the waste receptacle as she exited the room. Root did as she was told, her elbows on the table, staring at the vials as though they might burst at any moment. When Shaw returned several minutes later her arms were filled with a bundle of clothing and several red plastic bags emblazoned with the hazardous material emblem in black. She chuckled to herself and snapped her fingers in Root’s face.

“They’re not gonna sprout legs and wander off.”

Root shook her head distractedly, and returned to the present.

“You said to watch them.”

For the first time, Shaw smiled directly at Root. A real smile that brightened her whole face even in the poor, harsh lighting of the lab. It wasn’t the smirk she normally wore when she was lining up a shot, or the glimmer of intrigue that accompanied a particularly dangerous mission outline, or a truly enormous cut of steak. It was simple amusement, and Root had caused it, however unintentional that might have been. Root gazed adoringly at Shaw’s face until the muscles relaxed, and the image faded, intent to commit the moment to memory.

Shaw brushed past her and laid her bundle on the small countertop beside the Autoclave, sorting the bags and cloth into separate piles and checking the clock on the wall. She gave a satisfied nod and scooped the vials up from the table, turning her back towards Root as she turned on the tap of a square ceramic sink.

“What did you use to neutralize the virus?”

Root turned in her seat to watch Shaw. She had a fresh pair of latex gloves on her hands as she cautiously moved the first vial under the rushing water, and emptied it slowly into the stream.

“Nucleic acid mostly.”

Shaw repeated the process on each vial, placing the empty containers back in the plastic cradle. When she finished, she closed the entire container in one of the red bags she’d brought with her, and checked the temperature of the Autoclave to her left. Without a word Shaw ripped her black t-shirt over her head, and reached down for the buckle of her belt. Root stood so quickly that the short stool at her legs crashed into the table behind her.

“Shaw??”

Sameen stilled and turned reluctantly to face her with a hand on her waist. There were no discernible emotions for Root to impart besides her trademark stoic frustration. The lab suddenly seemed too quiet, Root could no longer hear the shuffling thump of the rodents scuttling across the floor of their tank, or the distant buzz of the hollow fluorescents, even the Autoclave’s low roar had abated. She was certain that in the uncomfortable stillness Shaw could hear her heart thudding against her ribs.

“Full decontamination Root. I’ve been carrying the virus with me all night.”

She shoved her discarded t-shirt into one of the open bags, and stripped her belt off with a whoosh. Root felt a tremble growing in her fingers, that spread with embarrassing enthusiasm to her arms, and threatened the stiffness of her shoulders. She found herself simultaneously unable to turn away, and too anxious to stare, her gaze darted rapidly around the room, but found no foothold to occupy.

The zip of Shaw’s pants was magnetic, and Root realized only after her eyes had traveled up the length of Shaw’s scantily clad body that she was leering and had been caught. Sameen dropped the dark cotton into the bag without ever removing her eyes from Root.

Root’s lips were parted, her breathing shallow, and the skin of her cheeks burned as furiously as though she had spent all afternoon in the sun. The space between them was stifling in its heat, a temperature that rose steadily as Shaw approached her with an empty bag dangling from her clenched fist. She stood almost against Root, without a word, and held the bag open between two steady hands.

Even in their dank surroundings the pattern of Shaw’s wounds were proudly pronounced. Jagged lines that curled like fingers from the edges of her obliques, gnarled ovals that spread down the length of her arms and torso with cancerous borders. She was the only living, breathing person Root had ever encountered whose collection of scars rivaled her own, and she was magnificent.

Shaw cleared her throat uncomfortably, averting her eyes down towards the waiting bag in her hands, but her downcast gaze followed the edges of Root’s shirt as it trailed up the length of her chest. For once, Root didn’t make a show of her actions. There was no need. They were meeting as equals, devoid of armor, and something about the way Shaw fixed her in her stare seemed too precious to ruin with her typical brashness.

When Root shoved her jeans down into the bag she fully expected Sameen to resume her task, but the seconds ticked by unmarked by either woman. Shaw clutched the parcel in one hand, while the fingers of the other twitched and hovered the way they so often did when inspecting an injury.

Shaw's underwear was as efficient as any other article of clothing she wore, and exactly what Root had imagined. Basic, black cotton briefs, and a matching sports bra. Her appreciation was cut short by a thrill of proximity that caused the hair on her forearms to stand on end, reaching for Shaw. The pad of Sameen's index finger trailed directly above the white edges of Root's oldest scar, the movement solicited a shiver down her spine. Root marveled that Shaw had found the one injury that had damaged her the most, and zeroed in with unshakable determination.

"How old were you?"

Not, 'how did it happen', or 'who did this to you', or any other question Root would adamantly oppose.

"Twelve."

Shaw gave a slow nod and stared pointedly just beyond Root’s left shoulder.

“Beer bottle?”

A nervous chuckle, brief and unflattering, threatened the uneasy stillness between them before Root could fight to smother it. Shaw didn’t flinch or tense, instead her eyes warmed with concern, skirting the edges of Root’s profile. Root had to hand it to her, the woman knew her scars.

“Actually, it was a vodka bottle.”

Shaw twisted her torso without turning away, and angled her right shoulder blade into Root’s line of sight. There, almost invisible against her own copper pallor, was a twisted line that danced almost to her spine. The scar was so old it looked more like a smudge, and Root placed her hand high on Shaw’s bicep as she scrutinized the pattern.

“Beer bottle.”

Root’s fingers tightened protectively around Shaw’s arm, and the shorter woman knotted beneath her, staring at Root’s jaw from the corner of her eye. The touch was electric, and she was certain that its effects were registered by both parties. Root could feel the muscles in Shaw’s arm flex beneath her palm, and with more self-preservation than she had ever shown, she let her hand fall back to her side.

Shaw straightened the moment she was released and her eyes traveled back to Root’s. She wore a muddled expression of consternation that made Root feel like a bomb to be diffused. Shaw released a long controlled breath and promptly returned her attention to the Autoclave behind her. The muscles in her back rippled as she opened the hatch and laid the bags she had collected inside the steel lipped mouth of the machine. She pressed a green button on the face of the device, and the room hissed to life around them. Shaw kept her back turned as she rifled through the stack of clean clothes she had stolen, and Root was grateful for the opportunity to quell the shaking in her legs, and lift her eyes towards the auxiliary lighting in an effort to shrink her enlarged pupils.

“Four minutes and we should be good to go.”

Root jumped at the sudden intrusion of Shaw’s voice, and licked her lips, devoid of innuendo for change. Sameen was already clad in black scrub bottoms when Root ventured another look in her direction, which luckily came just in time to catch a bundle of cotton before it smacked her in the face.

“Get dressed.”

Root smiled ruefully as she pulled the garish scrub bottoms up her thighs, the obscenely upbeat cat print was a sharp contrast to Shaw’s morose black that was absolutely intentional. She shirked the top over her head, and closed the distance between them. Root was standing at the counter beside Sameen when a pair of neon pink Crocks were shoved to her chest. She appraised them absently, hooking them around her heels with a contented hum.

“You know my shoe size.”

Shaw made a show of rolling her eyes, which seemed to take ages in their rotation to meet Root’s.

“You hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Food then.”

With that, Shaw punched the red button on the face of the Autoclave, and the high-pitched whistle quieted. She grabbed a nondescript clear trash bag from the drawer at her legs, and twisted the large round handle of the steel contraption open. A thick cloud of steam quickly engulfed the small room, curling in Root’s perfectly coiffed hair, and coiling the stray strands of black that brushed Shaw’s cheeks.  Shaw raked the red plastic pouches into the trash bag, and pocketed a bottle of butane as they made their way out of lab as quietly as they came.

 

://

 

The notification light blinked rapidly, and Root was grateful that she no longer needed a pen and paper to translate _Her_ messages. Reading the patterns had become second nature to her by that point, and if the room was quiet enough, Root could imagine the familiar cadence of _Her_ voice as clearly as she once heard it.

“ _Have you eaten?_ ”

“I wasn’t actually hungry. I ordered a coffee, Shaw had two burgers.”

“ _And the evidence was destroyed?_ ”

“The virus was neutralized. The supplies we used, and the clothes we wore were torched in a trash can in the alley behind the diner.”

Root sprawled on her back, resting the phone on the pillow beside her head as sleep threatened black oblivion on her periphery.

“ _Well done. Breakfast is served just south of the lobby until 10am_.”

 

Root darted upright in bed a few hours later, the room alarmingly bright, afraid that she had overslept, and uncertain as to what woke her. On the neighboring pillow her notification light blinked, and her screen alerted her to a new email. It was just after 9am, and attached to the email was an article published by the NCBI about the identification and possible cognitive treatments for Alexithymia. A term used to describe patients who demonstrate deficiencies in emotional awareness and communication.

The body of the email was only two sentences long:

_Do not miss breakfast again._

_Perhaps my initial diagnosis of Asset Shaw was severe._

With a bounce in her step, Root dressed quickly and spent the morning perusing the article in between distracted bites of fresh fruit and blistering mouthfuls of black coffee.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gang I am so sorry you had to wait for this update. I'm moving soon and I have just been swamped with life stuff. I will try my hardest to get the last chapter published as quickly as I can. In my haste, I have had even less time to edit, so please excuse any typos. I really hope this chapter doesn't disappoint, and as always I am eager to hear from you.


	5. Lover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is set a week after Root has left Team Machine after being told by The Machine to stop digging into Shaw’s disappearance (Episode 13 - M.I.A).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers,  
> I am terribly sorry for the delay in posting the conclusion to this fic. Would you believe me if I told you that I made a cross country move? Completely true. In any event, I hope you enjoy this final update.

She’d spent the last week drifting between moments of coherence quickly ruptured by debilitating grief, fully clothed, and face down on the mouldering polyester duvet of an equally neglected motel; that slumped beneath a viaduct on the south end of the city.

From between moth-nibbled curtains, the soft blue glow of the vacancy sign cast streams of stark, dust-laden lights. Pinholes in the sun-bleached drapes, that swayed in the tepid breeze of the air conditioner and shone like dull stars. It reminded her Bishop. More specifically of her childhood bedroom, of Hannah sneaking through her window on the nights that Root could not escape.

On one such evening they had made plans to lay in the trodden dirt that passed for Sam Groves’ backyard, and keep an eye out for some comet that Hannah had prattled on about for weeks. Her enthusiasm so contagious, that young Sam had nearly convinced herself that she cared. But Sam’s mother had been in a bad way for several days, and the night of the sighting had crescendoed with an ugly wound that would later become the faint white river on her abdomen made momentarily beautiful under Shaw’s ardent stare.

Hannah found Sam lying motionless on her sagging twin mattress with a dish towel pressed to her stomach. The floral print obscured nearly beyond recognition in garish smears of dried blood. Hannah hadn’t said a word when she lifted the corner of the rag to assess the damage, and when she finished, she folded the cloth back down into place and left Sam’s side as silently as she had appeared.

Sam could hear the soft padding of her nimble feet darting across the warped floorboards, so familiar with their temperament that they barely creaked beneath her toes. An unexpected brightness flooded the small space (barely acknowledged), when Hannah flipped the shade of Sam’s bedside lamp upside down. She removed the crushed pack of Newports she always carried in the breast pocket of her denim jacket, and sat on a backless chair beside the window as she smoked.

Sam rolled on her side to watch Hannah, the thick smoke curling around her thin fingers before it mingled with the summer breeze; a folded white pillowcase from the cupboard in the hall draped extraneously  across her bare knees. When the cigarette had been inhaled nearly to the filter, Hannah removed her jacket and turned her attention to the cheap linen on her lap. Slowly, and with great care she pressed the smoldering ash against the fabric, and held it up to the light. She huffed in satisfaction, never meeting Sam’s bewildered stare, and lit a second cigarette to continue her design, which she smoked only between burns when the cotton threatened to extinguish it.

From her spring-riddled mattress Sam could see the purple bruises edged with red, finger length and evenly spaced, that marred the delicate skin of Hannah’s forearms. They were the reason she wore that goddamn jacket Sam loathed so much in Texas, in July. Sam bit the inside of her lip until it bled, and trembled under the weight of all the secrets they shared, but never spoke aloud. In that moment, Sam Groves thought she understood the depth of hate, the pangs of being powerless. She had been so very wrong.

Hannah flicked the second cigarette out the window, and into the lawn as she proceeded to arrange the pillowcase carefully atop the flipped lampshade. Silently, Sam prayed to whatever was listening for a strong breeze to catch the still glowing butt in the tall dry weeds, and a wildfire large enough to swallow the whole shitty town.

Hannah knelt on the squeaky mattress and nudged Sam towards the wall with her elbow, as she sprawled on her back to admire her handiwork. The yellow water-stained ceiling was cast in geographically incorrect constellations, the patterns Hannah could remember off-hand, with little regard to their orbital relations. She lifted her index finger towards the makeshift sky, and traced their edges with a dirt darkened nail.

“Cassiopeia.”

A warmth unlike anything Sam had ever felt spread through her body in steady waves, she pressed her temple to Hannah’s shoulder, their thighs touching on the bed, and she listened.

“Orion...Lepus...Ursa Minor...Gemini…”

Sam fell into a dreamless sleep with the musky scent of Hannah’s unwashed hair tangled in her nostrils, and that lilting drawl, still with laced with the soprano of youth, echoing between her ears.

In the morning Hannah was gone, the window closed, the lampshade righted, and the pillowcase never to be seen again. It was a common occurrence, and one that had peppered and shaped the foundations of their friendship. They never said goodnight, they never said goodbye, they left no outward trace of their stolen adventures. The arrangement didn’t bother Sam in the slightest until the night Hannah disappeared, and with her, all the unspoken secrets; the stillbirth moments of longing, of promise, were left at Sam’s skinny feet. They were too numerous to carry, and suffocating in their squandered potential.

 

Root peeled a tear stained cheek from its nestled indentation in the musty duvet and pressed her thumb against the power button of her cell phone. It was just after two in the morning, and the count of unread emails had reached thirty one. She let the phone drop unceremoniously atop the peeling lacquer of the nightstand, and wished _She_ would cease the endless barrage of encoded spam messages. As if to reiterate some salient point, Root’s darkened laptop chirped the arrival of _Her_ newest communique.

In truth, she only had herself to blame. Root had intentionally chosen the shadiest motel she could find, just on the border of the shadow map. A room as broken as she felt, that despite its malingering decomposition inexplicably offered free WiFi. Her stationary laptop, a beacon for Samaritan to identify and isolate. Wouldn’t it be romantic to pretend (if only for a moment), that self-immolation was her only motivating factor? But grief, like glory, demands an audience. Root eyed the silver sheen of the ever-watchful camera lens on her last remaining life-line, and fell back against the bed with an exaggerated sigh. A thick cloud of dust hovered in the air, and the  fibrous particles seemed to catch in her lungs. There were times she actually managed to exhaust herself.

How much of Root was real? How much of her personality had she borrowed from Hannah? The infectious enthusiasm, the proclivity for innuendo. She had adopted the traits she found most endearing and created a kind of caricature around them that began as a voice inside her head, a way to keep Hannah close, and later evolved into a way of life. Well, a coping mechanism at the very least.

She was beginning to repeat the pattern with Shaw. Little touches, here and there, like the USP Compact that lay disassembled on the table by the window. Root had been sobbing too violently to finish cleaning the gun. Her choice of cuisine was also suspect, she thought distantly, as the crumpled parchment of her halfheartedly gnawed Beatrice Lily began to unfurl in the trash can beside the door. Red flags, the lot of them, that made Root wonder what she would become in Sameen’s absence.

Another chirp echoed into the abyss, effectively halting her melancholic meanderings, as the newest email stirred her laptop to life. Embittered that _She_ would have the audacity to continue this assault, Root crawled across the mattress on tingling limbs and collapsed her inbox. It had been a full hour and a half since she had endured the torment of watching the video recorded in the Stock Exchange. Which meant that she was thirty minutes late for her standing date with Sameen.

 

Six consecutive viewings later, Root sat on the grimy plastic basin of the shallow shower stall with her back hunched over the drain. It was easier to cry under the weak, calcified thrum of the water. There was no evidence of her sorrow afterwards. Her tears had ruined her favorite sweater, and all four of the depressing room’s bleach blanched pillowcases in the first forty eight hours of occupancy. She rose unsteadily on fatigue shaken legs, and rubbed a stiff towel over her skin until every inch of her body blushed in protest.

Her stern, steady hand reached out to smear the condensation from the mirror. Root glared, detached as the water made rivers of reflection down her steam obscured torso. Red-rimmed eyes peered back at her, judgmental and implacable, as she gripped the ceramic sink with white knuckles. Whatever monstrous transformation had been catalyzed in the belly of the Stock Exchange left little physical causality to help Root after. It seemed absurd, as she trailed a finger along the freshly sutured skin of her right side, that she had suffered such insignificant bodily harm. She felt like the lone survivor of some inevitable atomic war, who had scurried miraculously to safety with a tan. But she could swear the events of that day had rearranged her constitution, an organ shifted out of place, a heartbeat where her stomach should be. Like she was Patient Zero to a viral plague that laid dormant in her blood, waiting to spread its immeasurable sorrow, ready to consume nations.

It was the echo of her scream that jarred her, a sound as foreign to her ears in that horrid freight elevator, as it was in the pathetically compact motel bathroom. The mirror fell in obtuse shards against the basin of the sink, glinting bright beneath a smattering of carmine. When she pulled her fist free several slivers of glass remained embedded between her knuckles, giving her blood covered hand the illusion of claws. In the busted remnants of the mirror only half her face remained, but the woman she saw almost resembled her. There was a twist of sick pleasure to her lips that she immediately recognized, as she clenched her wounded fingers at her side, although the eyes that sought her out were darker than she remembered.

“She’s alive you fucking idiot.”

That crooked mouth spat the words in her face, as Root groped the wall for a fresh towel, and she could feel those murderous eyes burrowing beneath her skin even as she returned to the darkened suite.

Root had not taken many supplies with her when she fled, but she had remembered to bring Sameen’s field kit. She retrieved the steel tweezers from their leather holster and sat down at the small table by the window, picking rust colored pieces of glass from her hand; which for some reason, she arranged beside the disassembled barrel of Shaw’s preferred weapon. They made a curious mosaic under the blue light of the billboard that danced between the curtains, black steel and mauve glass twinkling beside her elbows.

She wrapped her fist with the last yard of sterile gauze and absently promised Shaw she would replace it. It was becoming a habit, speaking aloud to Sameen. Root could almost feel her presence lurking beside the window when she sank down on the mattress. Shaw’s face a mask of scowling disapproval, haloed in a sterile blue glow as she ran the rough tips of her fingers reverently over the handle of her USP Compact.

Root laid motionless on her back with her eyes on the pockmarked ceiling, afraid that any sudden movement on her part would chase Sameen’s ghost back to the shadows. It was fitting that after touting so many euphemisms for insanity from Lionel, she would begin to warrant them. That after so many months of walking around in God Mode, chattering gleefully with _Her_ , and laughing casually at the concerned glances of the average passerby; that Root would finally end up talking aloud to herself in a deserted motel on the shady side of town to her recently gunned down...whatever Shaw was.

Passing the hours with a ghost was easy, sleep however, was another matter entirely. Regardless of how exhausted she was, every night was the same dance with Sameen. She would close her eyes, and welcome oblivion with the usual images. Faces of people she killed, hits she orchestrated or delivered, memories of Hannah and the way the oppressive Texas sun danced along the freckles on her nose, moments with Sameen in between missions, stolen glances, and brief but invigorating conversations. Then the images faded, got tangled in the middle, until the threads pulled her back to the basement where the iron of Shaw’s blood still mingled with the gunpowder in the air. Her fingers tightening around the bed sheets as fiercely as though they were the steel cage that kept her from Sameen, and finally the screams that woke her every night, hours before dawn.

Root curled on her side and faced the window as Shaw’s ghost evaporated into the ether, always a moment before she could catch her. She pulled the spare pillow to her chest, and gripped it with the still weeping bandages of her left hand. Her eyes pointedly avoided the open laptop on the table, and lingered on the lazily billowing curtains.

“Goodnight sweetie.”

 

://

 

The reptilian hiss of the Autoclave threatened the tenuous silence between them. Shaw’s action-prone fingers twitching in the air just above the milky scar on Root’s abdomen.

“Beer bottle?”

A surprised smile spread across Root’s lips as Sameen scraped the edges of the aged reminder with her thumbnail, the action eliciting a scantily contained shiver from the taller woman.

“Actually it was a vodka bottle.”

Shaw’s lips pursed, her palm sliding over the scar as she shook her head.

“No. This one.”

Her index finger slid gently over the chapped wound on Root’s right side. The flesh still gnarled and angry, twisted together in thick ridges with black nylon thread.

Root didn’t look down. She couldn’t look anywhere but at Sameen, deliciously close, and yet seemingly unreachable. She cupped the side of Sameen’s face, the sullied white bandage on her palm still permitting the invasion of Shaw’s warmth.

“I don’t want to talk about that one.”

Shaw never registered the response, furthermore she remained impassive, and entirely unaffected by Root’s tentative touch. Shaw’s eyes were glued to the haphazard stitch job Root had mangled in the subway car the night she lost Sameen.

Behind them the Autoclave announced its completion with a resounding buzz.

“You should let me fix that when we get back.”

Shaw turned briskly on her heel, and flung the door of the decontamination unit wide. It wasn’t steam that engulfed the ill-lit virology lab this time, but a murky cloud of black smoke that nearly swallowed Sameen’s small frame.

“No. Shaw! We can’t go back!”

The caustic smoke sank heavily in Root’s lungs, stinging the corners of her eyes as she groped along the smooth steel of the lab table reaching for Shaw’s back.

“Root c’mon. They’re waiting for us.”

The black shock of Sameen’s dark hair was barely visible in flickering glow of the auxiliary lighting, but from where Root crouched it looked as though she was waving, beckoning Root back towards the far corner of the room. There was a door behind Sameen, wethered with chipped blue paint, an exit Root was sure she hadn’t noticed in the lab until now.

“Shaw-”

A fresh round of violent heaves rattled Root’s chest, and her warning fell impotently to the floor. She crawled on her hands and knees through the lab, beneath the congested air that smelled eerily like exploded C4. The door in the corner was just beginning to shut behind Sameen when Root pushed it open with her shoulder, and though she tried she couldn’t scream. It didn’t seem to matter much. Someone was screaming loud enough for everyone.

Root braced herself up against the chipped door frame just in time to watch as Harold and Lionel pried her fingers free from the steel cage. Her eyes wild with panic, more desperate than Root had ever remembered feeling in her life. That awful scream ringing in her ears as the freight doors closed, echoing off the shaft walls, like the pitch of it alone was enough to stir Shaw, who lay crumpled on the floor between two howling banshees.

 

://

 

“ _Root!_ ”

She was still screaming when she opened her eyes, upright in the plush bed of a penthouse that had been hers before God had gone on the run. An exasperated sigh blew briskly against her right ear as a calloused palm wrapped itself around her shoulder. Root kept her fingers knotted in the satin-lined comforter, stroking the fabric with her thumb nail as she fought to steady her heaving breaths, absently rocking back and forth.

“ _Root. Look at me_.”

Tears had already begun to slither from the confines of her eyelids. She shook her head violently, but the rest of her body locked, unyielding as stone. The veins in her neck bulged and the thin slivers of muscle along her spine jumped as though her own taser had been turned against her.

Beside Root, the right side of the bed dipped, a palm pressed to the fine white sheets as a scar wrinkled knee pushed against the outside of her thigh. Rough hands pulled at her chin, the force of the grip wrenching her eyes open as her body coiled, and prepared to defend against an unexpected threat. Reflexively, she gripped a skinny wrist with trembling fingers.

“ _How long are you going to keep doing this?_ ”

The deep exaggerated slope of two perfectly formed black eyebrows, the full lips, pitifully sullen and curled down in the corners, the almond eyes soft with concern, which was so infrequently shown it always took Root a moment to categorize the expression.

“Sameen?”

Root’s index finger trailed reverently along the disgruntled pout of Shaw’s lower lip, followed by clammy palms that pressed trepidatiously along a firmly clenched jaw. A broken sob exploded from her heaving chest, as her arms enclosed a back so rigid, that the effort to draw Shaw closer only served to pull Root on top of the smaller woman.

“Shaw don’t leave! Please! Please not again.”

She was hysterical, she knew that somewhere. Her own voice reverberated off the warm skin of Sameen’s throat where she had pressed her face, and rang shrill in her ears. Shaw nearly threw her backwards when she shoved a shoulder into her sternum, scrubbing the wetness from Root’s cheeks with the back of her hand, and wiping the blotted tears disgustedly on the blanket. Root watched every twitch of her disapproving mouth from the perch of Shaw’s lap. The weary eye roll, the sidelong glance despite their proximity and state of undress, the tightly controlled exhale, the ripple that fluttered in her jaw when she was truly irritated. Every gesture effortless, unconsciously delivered, and precisely what Root pictured every time she imagined Shaw.  

“ _Root...this has got to stop_.”

The skin above Root’s cochlear implant twitched, and she smacked the side of her neck as one would swat away an insect. Her vision darkened, and amidst the soft yellow glow of the comfortable room, there lingered an extrinsic scent of mold. An unwelcomed awareness prickled at the edges of her consciousness as Root pressed a palm flat over the skin of Shaw’s chest.

“You’re not here. You’re not Sameen.”

Root found herself pinned to the bed before she could so much as yelp. Her wrists caught in a bruising grip on either side of her head, as a bare torso ghosted above her own. Stray strands of mussed black hair tickled her cheeks, as Shaw brought her face close. She was as furious as Root had ever seen her, and when she spoke, the words seemed to claw their way across Root’s skull, vehement and exhausted.

“ _Every night. Every single night we go through this. I don’t do tears Root, or pity. I didn’t sit in a Samaritan cell for three months, tortured by that blonde bitch, only to come back and find the thing I was fighting for a broken, sniveling mess_.”

A strange heat built in the back of Root’s neck, electric and foreign, as it spread into her shoulders, raced down her spine, alighting every inch of her skin. She tested the grip that constrained her wrists, tentatively at first, and the response was immediate. A thigh settled between her splayed legs, the fingers that bound her constricted, and the heat of Sameen’s chest melted irrefutably against her breast.

Root hadn’t felt a heady wave of desire this intense since Sameen had first undressed in front of her. She writhed up against Shaw, that strange static charge still coursing through her bones, pulling their skin together as though magnetized. Sameen’s iron grip slackened with an approving growl that rumbled low in her belly. The noise itself inflamed Root as she arched her back, and caught Shaw’s bottom lip between her teeth.

Sameen responded with ferocious appetite, pushing her tongue roughly against Root's teeth, demanding purchase of her mouth. Root was only abstractly aware of the sounds she made, a moan that echoed down Shaw's throat, the volume of which she was certain could be heard by her neighbors. There were high pitched sighs, and heavy grunts mingling in the air around their heads. Even Root's nails scraping up the copper skin of Sameen's back resounded as clearly as though her hide had been replaced with sandpaper.

The distant echo of dripping water wound its way inside Root's good ear, something of a clatter when it landed, and the static charge that sang between their bodies, connecting and colliding their frenzied limbs, nested and pulsed in the skin of her neck. Her body grew rigid with unwelcome distraction despite Shaw’s ministrations. The twitch in her neck was almost painful as Root brought her free hand the side of her throat, running her index finger along the jagged scar tucked behind her right ear as Shaw nipped and sucked at her collarbone. From the corner of her eye she caught a flash of red, and along her jaw the stiff brush of a bandage. Vaguely, she recalled having injured herself, a broken mirror, and a blood-spattered reflection. She lifted her hand to her face, but Shaw caught her wrist once more, this time laying it gently at her side. She hovered inches above Root, her whisper solemn and oddly soft, their lips brushing with every word.

“ _Tell me what to do and I’ll do it_.”

It was everything she wanted to say to Shaw, but nothing she had ever expected to hear. Root’s mind went completely blank, no witty retort, or suggestive response. Instead, a half-remembered line slithered in the back of her mind from a conversation she had shared with Dr. Carmichael: She tells me what to do and I do it.

Shaw trailed the tips of her fingers reverently up Root’s forearm, digging red lines into her bicep before placing her palm protectively over Root’s injured ear. The combination of gentle caresses and punishing aberrations making Root squirm with anticipation. Shaw’s breath was labored, pupils wide and black, lips parted and swollen; the bottom split in a bright red line from Root’s teeth.

The heat between their bodies was smothering, and inescapable. Root could barely breathe, the air thick as syrup, and the sounds that pulled her attention away from Shaw were as irritating as they were misplaced. The distant thud of a body being shoved against the wall, a smattering of gunshots impossibly loud and disconcertingly close given their location on the 19th floor of a very upscale building in Manhattan.

Shaw tipped Root’s head to the side and trailed her tongue slowly along the edges of Root’s stapedectomy scar. She echoed the moan that escaped Root’s lips, the sentiment registering with perfect clarity in Root’s dormant implant. It was so startlingly clear that Root made a move to shove Shaw off of her completely, half-convinced that She was mimicking Root, but the leaden heat had rendered her limbs lame. Her protest was quickly abandoned when Shaw captured Root’s lips in an ardent and bruising kiss.

Shaw lifted above Root only enough the slide a hand between their bodies, her palm stalled just below Root’s navel. Shaw’s voice rumbled in a low and beautifully graveled whisper.

“ _Do you want me to stop?_ ”

Root’s mouth was open, but still no sound escaped. She could feel pressure against her cheekbones, every inhalation alarmingly difficult. She shook her head fervently, and laid her hand overtop Shaw’s, easing her palm down between her legs. Her scant breath remained trapped in her lungs, and her eyes slammed shut the moment Sameen entered her. Root sighed, a sound so deep, so heavy, that her entire being seemed to unfurl with its release. Shaw tucked her face in the crook of Root’s neck, and her teeth clamped down possessively on the taller woman’s shoulder.

Root’s whole body shook, her skin burned, the temperature so worrisome she thought one of them had to be fevered. She felt the edges of her consciousness dull, her vision tunneled and distorted as her release built much quicker than intended. Her eyes flew open as she tumbled over the edge, and the only thing she could see between the loose strands of black hair haphazardly criss-crossing her face, was the white washed ceiling. Overhead, pinpricks of light clouded her vision as she shook violently beneath Shaw. Sameen panted lightly in her ear, her fingers stilled, but they did not withdraw. As they lay there silently expiring in the stifling heat, the spots of light seemed to collect themselves, casting brilliant patterns above their bodies.

Root raised a throbbing hand towards the makeshift sky, and traced their shapes with a crooked finger. The bright crimson bandage on her hand marring the perfect stillness of their afterglow.

“Cassiopea.”

 

://

 

Root jerked her head up off the bed, the pillowcase was soaked through with sweat where she had fallen asleep face down against it, and she heaved a breath deep inside her lungs as though she had been drowned. A warm pink hue spilled between the curtains, flattering the otherwise morose wallpaper. Her wrist ached, pinned beneath her hips, fingers twitching against her thigh. She flushed with embarrassment when she removed it.

Root sat up slowly, her back to the door. Outside she heard the scuffle of steps, and saw the dizzying rotation of blue and red siren lights. She stood on rubbery legs, and padded over towards the window, parting the curtains. Police had taped off an area beneath the viaduct, a line of squad cars obstructing her view, and several uniforms stood at attention around the scene, scribbling statements from the small crowd that had gathered.

A fierce heat issued from the climate control unit nestled between the window and the floor, scorching the skin of her thighs.  The temperature on the thermostat read 90 degrees, though she was positive she had not turned the heat on last night, and would never have set the temperature that high. She set the unit to cool, the bandage on her hand crackling with dry blood as she twisted the dial. Through the paper thin walls, an authoritative voice reached her ears. A Detective she deduced, who was questioning the neighboring room about gunshots.

Root hastily reassembled the USP Compact, still strewn in pieces atop the table, and scrapped the glass she had pulled from her fist the night before into the trash. She tucked the gun in the top of her bag, and set it on the edge of the bed before walking briskly towards the bathroom. Inside, the sink was filled with rosy shards of glass. The faucet dripping in sharp, clambering smacks against the glistening fragments.

Her back straightened defensively, the relentless stench of mildew tangling in her nostrils. She ripped her bandage off, and threw handfuls of cold water down her face and neck. Her eyes rigorously avoided her reflection, skirting instead to the skin of her shoulder, which of course, was completely unmarked.

Root walked dangerously slow towards the laptop still open on the table. Her eyes scanning the adjusted thermostat, raking scrupulously over the destruction of her mattress; pillows thrown, sheets twisted in wanton disarray, the threadbare duvet cast dejectedly to the floor.

She sat very still in the blue vinyl chair beside the window, and tapped a chipped black nail menacingly against the table. She sat, and she waited, staring daggers into the impassive camera lens, but the laptop screen remained dark - feigning ignorance.

The skin below her ear ached in an all too familiar way. The strain of a crude surgery, coupled with the intrusion of an improperly calibrated cochlear implant had made the muscles in and around her right jaw painfully sensitive. She hadn’t felt a pang this pronounced since before Samaritan came online.

On the other side of the wall, the Detective was wrapping up his interview. It wouldn’t be long before he knocked on Root’s door, and she had been without a scrutable alias since she said goodbye to Harold. She told herself it didn’t matter. Let the police question her, find her wounded hand, and her stashed weapon. Let them take her into custody on suspicion, and shine a light of the meddlesome loose end Samaritan wanted so desperately to sever.

The thrumming of her nails became offensive even to her own ears. She began to fidget in her seat, eyeing the duffle bag still open on the bed. The room grew oppressively stark, despite her lively irritation, and it was in that moment with her back tense against the seat, legs pumping with nervous energy, trigger finger itching for her gun; that she realized just how much life was left inside her.

Far from grateful, she stood with an exhausted groan, and gathered her laptop with a practiced swoop of her arm, throwing it into the top of her duffle bag. She shirked the bag absently over her shoulder, and retrieved her cell phone from the nightstand.

“Any tips for skirting the police on my way out?”

She stared at the phone in her palm, awaiting instruction from the notification light, and very nearly dropped it when a series of rising and descending chimes rang briskly in her implant. A long discarded code between them to signal right and left, and one _She_ had not utilized since the very first time they communicated.

Root felt a begrudging smile quirk her pursed lips, which she smothered, sliding the phone into her back pocket. She slipped out the front door, down a small corridor that housed two vending machines, and out into the empty backlot. The phone in her pocket buzzed just as she reached the road. Unread email thirty two contained a yet another flight itinerary, and a brief but easily decoded message.

“ _Take the taxi to JFK International. A passport has been secured beneath the mat in the backseat on the passenger side of the vehicle. There is a ticket waiting for you at the Eithad Airlines desk under the name Juliette Monroe. Await further instructions_.”

Root’s anger burned bright in her cheeks.

“So we’re going to continue to pretend that you can’t speak?”

A predictable silence followed as Root adjusted the strap of her duffel, shoving the phone in the pocket of her coat, and began her hike along the roadside. On the horizon, little more than a speck, a vehicle barreled into view. Her footsteps halted, the bag feeling heavier than it had moments ago, and even her slim cell phone seemed to drag her down against the pavement. The weight of all _Her_ requirements. But something shifted inside Root as the foretold taxi’s outline grew clear. She heard Shaw’s voice as clearly as she had the night before, the inflections and tone completely genuine, perhaps recycled and repurposed from the coms line.

_Tell me what to do and I’ll do it._

Root’s arm darted out to hail the speeding cab, which came to a screeching halt a few feet in front of her. She dropped inside the taxi, pretending to settle her bag in the floor, and retrieved an unmarked manila envelope from the mat at her feet.

The truth was that there was only one being powerful enough to stop Samaritan, and stopping Samaritan was the only way to save Shaw. _God_ needed Root’s help enough to chance putting _Herself_ on _Her_ rival’s radar by whispering in her ear. Whether _She_ would ever confirm Shaw’s capture, or murder, remained to be seen, but _She_ had risked _Her_ own life to remind Root that she had a reason to keep fighting. A reason to live.

Root flipped her hair back from her face, and called between the plastic partition to the driver.

“JFK please, and I’m in a bit of a rush.”

The cabbie sped off, sparing glance at his passenger in the rearview mirror.

“You got it. Where ya headed?”

“Sri Lanka.”

“Business or pleasure?”

“It’s usually a bit of both.”

“Must be a helluva job then.”

Root settled back against the cracked leather seat, a brilliant smile spreading the corners of her mouth, and she nodded solemnly at her reflection in the window; the edges of her face blurred in the crumbling facades of the buildings they passed.

“She tells me what to do and I do it.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've read a lot of comments back and forth on Tumblr about whether or not The Machine would ever use Shaw's voice with Root. Many seemed to believe that Root would be furious, and I agree to an extent, but I think Root's complete devotion to The Machine renders the argument insignificant. I'm certain some of you will disagree with that, but for the sake of this fic please keep in mind that the dominant pairing was always Root/The Machine. Much like the show itself. Root loves Shaw, no one is debating that, but she and The Machine belong to each other in a way.


End file.
